Under stress like this Ralph was fighting to regain his self mastery.  He knew that he must force himself to sit opposite his father at the table, and exchange the daily, commonplace talk.  No one must ever suspect that anything was amiss—­it is this demand of Society which keeps the structure in place and draws the line between civilisation and barbarism.  He knew that he never again could look his father straight in the face, that he must always avoid his eyes.  It would be hard at first, but Ralph had never given up anything simply because it was difficult.

It was a relief to find that he was downstairs first.  Hearing his father’s step upon the stair, he thought, would enable him to steel himself more surely to the inevitable meeting.  After they had once spoken together, it would be easier.  At length they might even become accustomed to the ghastly thing that lay between them and veil it, as it were, with commonplaces.

Ralph took up the morning paper and pretended to read, though the words danced all over the page.  The old housekeeper brought in his breakfast, and, likewise, he affected to eat.  An hour went by, and still the dreaded step did not sound upon the stair.  At length the old housekeeper said, with a certain timid deference: 

“Your father’s very late this morning, Doctor Ralph.  He has never been so late before.”

“He’ll be down, presently.  He’s probably overslept.”

“It’s not your father’s way to oversleep.  Hadn’t you better go up and see?”

Thus forced, Ralph went leisurely up-stairs, intending only to rap upon the door, which was always closed.  Perhaps, with the closed door between them, the first speech might be easier.

He rapped once, with hesitation, then again, more definitely.  There was no answer.  Wholly without suspicion, Ralph opened the door, and went in.

Anthony Dexter lay upon his bed, fully dressed.  On his face was a smile of ineffable peace.  Ralph went to him quickly, shook him, and felt his pulse, but vainly.  The heart of the man made no answer to the questioning fingers of his son.  The eyes were closed and, his hands trembling now, Ralph forced them open.  The contracted pupils gave him all the information he needed.  He found the wineglass, which still smelled of laudanum.  He washed it carefully, put it away, then went down-stairs.

His first sensation was entirely relief.  Anthony Dexter had chosen the one sure way out.  Ralph had a distinct sense of gratitude until he remembered that death did not end disgrace.  Never again need he look in his father’s eyes; there was no imperative demand that he should conceal his contempt.  With the hiding of Anthony Dexter’s body beneath the shriving sod, all would be over save memory.  Could he put by this memory as his father had his?  Ralph did not know.

The sorrowful preliminaries were all over before Ralph’s feeling was in any way changed.  Then the pity of it all overwhelmed him in a blinding flood.