Oh! he dreaded it most horribly! He loved his father but with a love that had in it elements of fear, timidity, every possible sort of awkwardness.

Moreover he was helpless.
Ever since that first day when as a tiny child of four or five he had awakened to behold that figure, enormous in a long night-shirt, summoning God in the middle of the night with a candle flickering fantastic shadows on to the wall behind them, Martin had been weak as putty in his father's hands.

Against other men he could stand up; against that strange company of fears, affections, superstitions, shadowy terrors, dim expectations that his father presented to him he could do nothing.
Well--that conversation had to come some time.

He must show that he was a man now, moulded by the world with his own beliefs, purposes, resolves.

But if he did not love him, how much easier it would be! When he went downstairs he found the old man in the little pink drawing-room--he looked tired and worn.