The son took one sharp survey of Marcus, and then slipped his right hand
insinuatingly in that of his father, which hung over an arm of the easy
chair. Mr. Van Quintem turned his face farther away, but Marcus observed
that his fingers closed upon the hand which lay within them.
"Are you quite well, my dear father?" asked the son, in a low, hollow
voice, not meant to be overheard by the visitor.
"I am, thanks to God, and the doctor, and my niece," said the father,
stealing a side look at his son.
"And no thanks to me, I know that. I feared, my dear father, after what
had occurred, that you could not bear the sight of me. Therefore I kept
away from your bedside."
"That is a lame excuse, Myndert," replied the father. He spoke in a
voice intended to be audible to Marcus Wilkeson.
A gleam in the son's sunken eyes, and a new pallor on his bloated
cheeks, indicated his displeasure at the turn which this conversation
was taking. He withdrew his hand, and said, in a deep whisper:
"I did not think you would quarrel with me, when I called to
congratulate you on your recovery.
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