"But--"

"Yes, my innocent creature. You may well pause." He caressed her, and
she tried to continue in unhappiness, but could not. "You pause because
there is nothing to say."

"You're his father at any rate," she burst out triumphantly.

"That's not his fault. You ought to have thought of all this over twenty
years ago, before Charlie was born, before we were married, before you
met me. To become a parent is to accept terrible risks. I'm Charlie's
father. What then? Am I to give him orders as to what he must do and
what he mustn't? This isn't China and it isn't the eighteenth century.
He owes nothing whatever to me, or to you. If we were starving and he
had plenty, he would probably consider it his duty to look after us; but
that's the limit of what he owes us. Whereas nothing can put an end to
our responsibility towards him. You see, we brought him here. We thought
it would be so nice to have children, and so Charlie arrived. He didn't
choose his time, and he didn't choose his character, nor his education,
nor his chance. If he had his choice you may depend he'd have chosen
differently. Do you want me, on the top of all that, to tell him that he
must obediently accept something else from us--our code of conduct? It
would be mere cheek, and with all my shortcomings I'm incapable of
impudence, especially to the young. He was our slave for nearly twenty
years. We did what we liked with him; and if Charlie fails now it simply
means that we've failed. Besides, how can you be sure that he's carrying
on like an adventurer? He may be carrying on like a financial genius.
Perhaps we have brought a giant to earth. We can't believe it of course,
because we haven't got enough faith in ourselves, but later on we may be
compelled to believe it. Naturally if Charlie crashes after a showy