pleased with you, delighted would be a better word. Yes, I'm delighted with you.
Harold said nothing.
And now, I suppose that you wish to know about your future, so far as I have any concern with your future. Or would you rather, perhaps, learn something of your past?
It is for you to say, father. Tell me what you feel like telling me.
It is no easy task I have set myself. You may turn against me. You don't know me at all, and it is difficult to tell a boy what I have to tell you. But you must believe that I am pleased with you—he paused for a moment to wipe the moisture from his eye-glasses—or I would not be willing, or able, to tell you what I am about to tell you now.
I do believe it, father.
I am sure you do. You must know then—the hand of George Prewett shook and there were traces of emotion in his voice—that your mother was an extremely beautiful woman, and that she was the only person I have ever really loved. I was past forty when I married her, but she was a young girl at this period. A few months later I learned to my delight that, in the course of time, she would be delivered of a child. The plans I made for the life of that little girl, for it never occurred to me to consider the possibility that I might have a son, were prodigious. I will not take up your time, young sir, in describing them, but you can
