That evening in Park Lane, watching his father dine, he was overwhelmed by his old longing for a son⁠—a son, to watch him eat as he went down the years, to be taken on his knee as James on a time had been wont to take him; a son of his own begetting, who could understand him because he was the same flesh and blood⁠—understand, and comfort him, and become more rich and cultured than himself because he would start even better off. To get old⁠—like that thin, grey wiry-frail figure sitting there⁠—and be quite alone with possessions heaping up around him; to take no interest in anything because it had no future and must pass away from him to hands and mouths and eyes for whom he cared no jot! No! He would force it through now, and be free to marry, and have a son to care for him before he grew to be like the old old man his father, wistfully watching now his sweetbread, now his son.