startling and comforting. "Look here, Roy. No more mysteries. This is
my affair as much as yours. Come here."

Pulling a bedside chair near the window, he sat down and drew Roy close
to him, taking his shoulders between his hands.

"Now then, old boy, tell me just exactly what happened--as man to man."

The appeal was irresistible. But--how could he----? The very change in
his father's manner made the telling at once more difficult and more
urgent.

"Daddy--it hurts too much. I don't know how to say it----" he faltered,
and the blood tingled in his cheeks.

If Nevil Sinclair was not a stern father, neither was he a very
demonstrative one. Even his closest relations were tinged with something
of the artist's detachment, and innate respect for the individual even
in embryo. But at sight of Roy's distress and delicacy of feeling, his
heart melted in him. Without a word, he slipped an arm round the boy's
shoulder and drew him closer still.

"That better, eh? You've got to pull it through, somehow," he said
gently, so holding him that Roy could, if he chose, nestle against him.
He did choose. It might be babyish; but he hated telling: and it was a
wee bit easier with his face hidden. So, in broken phrases and in a
small voice that quivered with anger revived--he told.

While he was telling, his father said nothing; and when it was over, he
still said nothing. He seemed to be looking out of the window, and Roy