e angry and more puzzled. "Yesterday wasn't a rag," he
said without focusing his eyes. "I was drunk, but naturally meant it."

"Meant what?"

"To smash you. Bad liquor did what Mrs. Elliot couldn't. I've put myself
in the wrong. You've got me."

It was a poor beginning.

"As I have got you," said Rickie, controlling himself, "I want to have a
talk with you. There has been a ghastly mistake."

But Stephen, with a countryman's persistency, continued on his own line.
He meant to be civil, but Rickie went cold round the mouth. For he had
not even been angry with them. Until he was drunk, they had been dirty
people--not his sort. Then the trivial injury recurred, and he had
reeled to smash them as he passed. "And I will pay for everything," was
his refrain, with which the sighing of raindrops mingled. "You shan't
lose a penny, if only you let me free."

"You'll pay for my coffin if you talk like that any longer! Will you,
one, forgive my frightful behaviour; two, live with me?" For his only
hope was in a cheerful precision.

Stephen grew more agitated. He thought it was some trick.

"I was saying I made an unspeakable mistake. Ansell put me right, but it
was too late to find you. Don't think I got off easily. Ansell doesn't
spare one. And you've got to forgive me, to share my life, to share
my money.--I've brought you this photograph--I want it to be the first
thing you accept from me--you have the greater right--I know all the
story now. You know who it is?"

"Oh yes; but I don't want to drag all that in."

"It is only her wish if we live together. She was planning it when she
died."

"I can't follow--because--to share your life? Did you know I called here
last Sunday week?"

"Yes. But then I only knew half. I thought you were my father's son."

Stephen's anger and bewilderment were increasing. He stuttered.
"What--what's the odds if you did?"

"I hated my father," said Rickie. "I loved my mother." And never had the
phrases seemed so destitute of meaning.

"Last Sunday week," interrupted Stephen, his voice suddenly rising,
"I came to call on you. Not as this or that's son. Not to fall on your
neck. Nor to live here. Nor--damn your dirty little mind! I meant to
say I didn't come for money. Sorry. Sorry. I simply came as I was, and I
haven't altered since."

"Yes--yet our mother--for me she has risen from the dead since then--I
know I was wrong--"

"And where do I come in?" He kicked the hassock. "I have