"That's enough. I asked no information. You can go now."

The door closed upon us, and there was again a pause. My subject had
floated away altogether like a mist, though I had been so concerned about
it. I tried to resume, but could not. Something seemed to arrest my very
breathing; and yet in this dull, respectable house of ours, where
everything breathed good character and integrity, it was certain that
there could be no shameful mystery to reveal. It was some time before my
father spoke, not from any purpose that I could see, but apparently
because his mind was busy with probably unaccustomed thoughts.

"You scarcely know the drawing-room, Phil," he said at last.

"Very little. I have never seen it used. I have a little awe of it, to
tell the truth."

"That should not be. There is no reason for that. But a man by himself,
as I have been for the greater part of my life, has no occasion for a
drawing-room. I always, as a matter of preference, sat among my books;
however, I ought to have thought of the impression on you."

"Oh, it is not important," I said; "the awe was childish. I have not
thought of it since I came home."

"It never was anything very splendid at the best," said he. He lifted the
lamp from the table with a sort of abstraction, not remarking even my
offer to take it from him, and led the way. He was on the verge of
seventy, and looked his age; but it was a vigorous age, with no symptom
of giving way. The circle of light from the lamp lit up his white hair
and keen blue eyes and clear complexion; his forehead was like old ivory,