The old man's hauteur touched some spring of resentment in Peter. He shook his head.
“No, Captain; our lack of sympathy goes deeper than manners. My position here is anomalous. For instance, I can talk to you sitting, I can drink with you standing, but I can't breakfast with you at all. I do that in camera, like a disgraceful divorce proceeding. It's precisely as I was treated coming down here South again; it's as I've been treated ever since I've been back; it's—” He paused abruptly and swallowed down the rancor that filled him. “No,” he repeated in a different tone, “there is no earthly excuse for me to remain here, Captain, or to let you go on measuring out your indulgences to me. There is no way for us to get together or to work together—not this far South. Let me thank you for a night's entertainment and go.”
Peter turned about, meaning to make an end of this queer adventure.
The old Captain watched him, and his pallor increased. He lifted an unsteady hand.
“No, no, Peter,” he objected, “not so soon. This has been no trial, no fair trial. The little—little—er—details of our domestic life here, they will—er—arrange themselves, Peter. Gossip—talk, you know, we must avoid that.” The old lawyer stood staring with strange eyes at his protégé. “I—I'm interested in you, Peter. My actions may seem—odd, but—er—a negro boy going off and doing what you have done—extraordinary. I—I have spoken to your mother,
