You must drink this glass of wine." "Thank you, Madame," I answered, and turned to my letters, among which were a couple of telegrams.

But she laid her quiet hand upon them and pointed with the other to the glass that she had filled.

She watched me drink the strong wine, which was, indeed, almost a cordial, then took up the letters in her hands.
"My poor friend," she said, "there is bad news for you here.

You must be prepared." Handing me the letters, she went to the door, but did not quit the room.

She merely stood there with her back turned to me, exhibiting a strange, silent patience while I slowly opened the letters and read that my father and I had quarrelled for the last time.
It was I who moved first and broke the silence of that old house.