your father had got so far . . . then he felt . . ."
"What?"
"That he cared more for you . . . than for Marianne, poor darling. Differently, you know, but more. Much more. Poor darling!"
A passion of joy swept through the lad; his chest, on which his father's head lay, heaved. But he felt that it was wicked to have that joy:
"Dad, once more, if it means your happiness . . ."
"No, old chap . . . for there would be something severed in me, something broken: I don't know how to put it. I should miss you all the time that you were not with me. I couldn't do it, Addie. It's an impossibility, Addie . . . You know, old chap, I oughtn't to talk like this to a son of fifteen. Fifteen? No, you're only fourteen. Well, you look sixteen. But that's nothing to do with it. I oughtn't to talk like this. I'm a queer father, eh, Addie? I don't give you a proper upbringing: I just let you go your own way. Lord, old chap, I can't do it, I can't give you a proper upbringing! I shouldn't know how. You'll bring yourself up, won't you? You're sure to be good and clever and honourable and all the rest of it. I don't know how, you see: I just let you run wild, like a colt in a meadow. Well, you promise me to turn out all right, don't you? To do nothing mean and so on? You know, if Grandpapa were to hear all this, were
