Peter by E.F. Benson

Peter, as he strolled down the corridor, knew that he had been rather signorial -- if that was the word -- and designedly so, in this interview. In spite of Mr. Mainwaring's magnificent occupation of the state-rooms, for which, after all, he had his son to thank, Peter was pleased to feel that he had been putting his father in his place. It had certainly been with this object in view that he had smoked his cigarette, and dropped the expired match on the carpet, not exactly calling attention to his position, but casually assuming it. Again, in the matter of the picture, he had, ever so quietly, ever so indulgently, just hinted at the right course, and like a lamb -- a great vain rococo, farcical lamb -- his father had bleated his way into the proper fold.

Peter confessed to himself -- he seldom confessed to anybody else -- that the motive which inspired these manœuvres was an unamiable one. He might easily have obtained the results that he now, together with his mother's unopened letter, carried away from this interview, by tact, by pleasantness, by the general small change of sympathy. Hitherto he had been accustomed to use such lubrications to make the wheels of life run smoothly in domestic dealings; but now that no further domestic lubrication was necessary on his part (his father, it is true, might have to flourish the oil-can with desperate agility, if he was to ensure smooth working) Peter knew that he had just driven ahead and let the wheels, if so they felt disposed, squeak and squeal, and grind and grumble.