"I should have known you would be frank," he said, "Your letter, my son,
refusing to accept my remittances, should have taught me as much, but we
grow forgetful as our feet weary of the path of life."

Yet I remember thinking that few people looked less weary than my father
as he stood there watching me. The primroses, it seemed, had afforded
pleasant footing.

I believe he read my thoughts, for it seemed to me that for an instant
genuine amusement was written in his glance, but there were few genuine
emotions he allowed free play.

"Perhaps," he suggested pleasantly, "it would interest you to know why
I have returned to these rather rigorous and uncongenial surroundings. If
not, I beg you to be frank again, Henry. There's nothing that I dread
more than being stupid."

"Sir," I objected, "I told you I was curious."

"To be sure you did," he admitted. "Can it be possible that I am becoming
absent-minded? Henry, I am going to tell you something very flattering.
Can you believe it? It is largely on your account that I consented to
revisit these familiar scenes!"

"No," I said, "I cannot, sir, since you ask me."

My father shrugged his shoulders. "Far be it from me to overstrain your
credulity, my son," he observed blandly. "Let us admit then there was
also some slight factor of expedience--but slight, Henry, almost
negligible, in fact. It happened that I was in a French port, and that