“Papa,” his son said, tenderly, sitting down on the edge of the bed and reaching out to press his feet.
Old Varma tucked his feet under him, out of the way, and continued to gaze stubbornly into the yellow air of the summer evening.
“Papa, I’m home.”
Varma’s hand jerked suddenly, in a sharp, derisive movement, but he did not speak.
“How are you feeling, papa?”
Then Varma turned and looked at his son. His face was so out of control and all in pieces, that the multitude of expressions that crossed it could not make up a whole and convey to the famous man exactly what his father thought of him, his skill, his art.