those, who judges right?"


It was the father who spoke first.

"Shut that shutter, my friend," he said. "It has not been opened for
thirty years."

He had an odd habit of jerking his head upwards and sideways with raised
eyebrows. It would appear that a trick of thus deploring some unavoidable
misfortune had crystallized itself, as it were, into a habit by long use.
And the old man rarely spoke now without this upward jerk.

Lory closed the shutter and followed his father into an adjoining room--a
small, round apartment lighted by a skylight and impregnated with
tobacco-smoke. The carpet was worn into holes in several places, and the
boards beneath were polished by the passage of smooth soles. Lory glanced
at his father's feet, which were encased in carpet slippers several sizes
too large for him, bought at a guess in the village shop.

Here again the two men stood and looked at each other. And again it was
the father who broke the silence.

"My son," he said, half to himself; "and a soldier. Your mother was a bad
woman, mon ami. And I have lived thirty years in this room," he concluded
simply.

"Name of God!" exclaimed Lory. "And what have you done all this time?"

"Carnations," replied the old man, gravely. "There is still daylight.