“Ah—­that’s what’s wearing you out, is it?”

“I’m beginning to get a bit sick of it, I own.”

“What’s she like to look at it, this young lady?  Is she pretty?”

“Very.”

A queer hungry look came over the boy’s face.  Isaac had seen that look there once or twice before.  His lips widened in a rigid smile; he had to moisten them before they would stretch.  He was profoundly moved by Keith’s disclosure, by the thought of that imperishable and untameable desire.  It held for him the promise of his own continuance.  It stirred in him the strange fury of his fatherhood, a fatherhood destructive and malign, that feeds on the life of children.  As he looked at his son his sickly frame trembled before that embodiment of passion and vigour and immortal youth.  He longed to possess himself of these things, of the superb young intellect, of the abounding life, to possess himself and live.

And he would possess them.  Providence was on his side.  Providence had guided him.  He could not have chosen his moment better; he had come at a crisis in Keith’s life.  He knew the boy’s nature; after all, he would be brought back to him by hunger, the invincible, implacable hunger of the flesh.

“Your mother was pretty.  But she lost her looks before I could marry her.  I had to wait for her; so I know what you’re going through.  But I fancy waiting comes harder on you than it did on me.”

“It does,” said Keith savagely.  “Every day I think I’ll marry to-morrow and risk it.  But,” he added in a gentler tone, “that might come hard on her.”

“You could marry to-morrow, if you’d accept the proposal I came to make to you.”

Keith gave a keen look at his father.  He had been touched by the bent figure, the wasted face; the evident signs of sickness and suffering.  He had resolved to be very tender with him.  But not even pity could blind him to the detestable cunning of that move.  It revolted him.  He had not yet realized that the old man was fighting for his life.

“I’m not open to any proposals,” he said coldly.  “I’ve chosen my profession, and I mean to stick to it.”

“That’s all very well; but you should ’ave a solid standby, over and above.”

“Literature doesn’t leave much room for anything over and above.”

“That’s where you’re making a mistake.  Wot you want is variety of occupation.  There’s no reason why you shouldn’t combine literature with a more profitable business.”

“I can’t make it combine with any business at all.”

“Well, I can understand your being proud of your profession.”

“Can you understand my profession being proud of me?”

Isaac smiled.  Yes, he could well understand it.

“And,” said he, “I can understand your objection to the shop.”

“I haven’t any objection to the shop.”

“Well—­then there’s no reason why we shouldn’t come to an agreement.  If I don’t mind owning that I can’t get on without your help, you might allow that you’d get on a bit better with mine.”