He didn't mean to leave
me his money--you know how he loathed me--but there was a mix-up over the
will that was to cut me out--not properly witnessed or something.
Anyhow, I came out into a few thousand. Rather a joke on the old man,
wasn't it?"
"One might almost hope for another life if one were sure he were grinding
his teeth over it."
A faint perplexity flickered across the sallow face.
"Oh, I don't know. I don't seem to bear him any particular grudge now.
Perhaps it would be better if I could. When one's young one judges very
harshly. Parents and kids don't understand each other--not really--and
don't always love each other either, if the truth were known. Why should
they? The old man and I were like strangers tied to one another by the
leg. I used to think if I could pay him back for all the beastly times
he gave me I'd die happy. But I don't feel like that now. I expect he
was pretty miserable himself. There's too much of that sort of thing for
us to wish it on to one another."
"You're very tolerant," Stonehouse said. "I'm not. But then I haven't
inherited anything." He stopped abruptly and his manner hardened. But
Cosgrave did not pursue the subject. His interest had suddenly slumped
into what was evidently an habitual apathy, and only when they had paid
their bill and drifted out into the street did he revert for a moment to
the past.
"And the Gang--and Frances Wilmot?" he asked. He looked shyly at his
companion's profile, which showed up for a moment in a bold, tranquil
outline against the lamplight.
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