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Rh to hear me talking like this, he would think it very odd. And it is odd. It's not right. But your father, Addie, is like that: he's hopeless, quite hopeless. So now you know all about it. I couldn't do it. . . Poor Marianne, poor darling! But she's young still; she'll have her happiness one day, a different happiness. . . . Well, Addie, tell Mamma to-morrow. Tell her I would rather, if Mamma agrees, leave everything as it is, old chap, even though it's not always a paradise, that I'd rather leave everything as it is, old chap, for your sake. . . and also for my own: I could never do without you for six months. You may be going away quite soon: Leiden. . . and then your service. . . but, for the present. . . for the present. . . Will you tell Mamma to-morrow? Those serious conversations make me feel so tired. . . in my head. I would rather cycle for a week on end without stopping than spend one day thinking as I have done to-day. . . And now I'm going to bed, old chap, for I'm dead tired. . ."

He caught his son in his arms, held him closely, kissed him and went away abruptly. The boy remained alone in the dark room. The yellow shaft of light from the other villa died away. The house was quite silent; the servants had gone to bed. And the boy stayed on, knowing all the time that his parents upstairs, in their own rooms, were still separated, in spite of so much that might have united