This, however, did not seem natural; it was much more likely that his father would send him away, anywhere out of his sight, forwarding, perhaps through his lawyer or agents, enough money to keep him alive.

The more Vandover thought of this, the more he became convinced that such would be his father's decision.

The Old Gentleman had spent the night over it, time enough to make up his mind, and the fact that he had neither spoken to him nor looked at him that morning was only an indication of what Vandover was to expect.

He fancied he knew his father well enough to foresee how this decision would be carried out, not with any imprecations or bursts of rage, but calmly, sadly, inevitably.
Toward noon his father came into the room, and Vandover turned to face him and to hear what he had to say as best he could.

He knew he should not break down under it, for he felt as though his misery had reached its limit, and that nothing could touch or affect him much now.
His father had a decanter of port in one hand and a glass in the other; he filled the glass and held it toward Vandover, saying gently: "I think you had better take some of this: you've hardly eaten anything in three days.