The more you are at home here, sir, the better for us.

CRAMPTON (in poignant irony). Home!

WAITER (reflectively). Well, yes, sir: that's a way of looking at
it, too, sir. I have always said that the great advantage of a hotel is
that it's a refuge from home life, sir.

CRAMPTON. I missed that advantage to-day, I think.

WAITER. You did, sir, you did. Dear me! It's the unexpected that
always happens, isn't it? (Shaking his head.) You never can tell, sir:
you never can tell. (He goes into the hotel.)

CRAMPTON (his eyes shining hardly as he props his drawn, miserable
face on his hands). Home! Home!! (He drops his arms on the table and
bows his head on them, but presently hears someone approaching and
hastily sits bolt upright. It is Gloria, who has come up the steps
alone, with her sunshade and her book in her hands. He looks defiantly
at her, with the brutal obstinacy of his mouth and the wistfulness of
his eyes contradicting each other pathetically. She comes to the corner
of the garden seat and stands with her back to it, leaning against the
end of it, and looking down at him as if wondering at his weakness: too
curious about him to be cold, but supremely indifferent to their
kinship.) Well?

GLORIA. I want to speak with you for a moment.

CRAMPTON (looking steadily at her). Indeed? That's surprising. You
meet your father after eighteen years; and you actually want to speak to