describe. She perceived though
that he had not expected an answer, because she heard him muttering to
himself that: "There was half a million's worth of work done and material
accumulated there."
"You mustn't think of these things, papa," she said firmly. And he asked
her with that invariable gentleness, in which she seemed now to detect
some rather ugly shades, what else had he to think about? Another year
or two, if they had only left him alone, he and everybody else would have
been all right, rolling in money; and she, his daughter, could have
married anybody--anybody. A lord.
All this was to him like yesterday, a long yesterday, a yesterday gone
over innumerable times, analysed, meditated upon for years. It had a
vividness and force for that old man of which his daughter who had not
been shut out of the world could have no idea. She was to him the only
living figure out of that past, and it was perhaps in perfect good faith
that he added, coldly, inexpressive and thin-lipped: "I lived only for
you, I may say. I suppose you understand that. There were only you and
me."
Moved by this declaration, wondering that it did not warm her heart more,
she murmured a few endearing words while the uppermost thought in her
mind was that she must tell him now of the situation. She had expected
to be questioned anxiously about herself--and while she desired it she
shrank from the answers she would have to make. But her father seemed
strangely, unnaturally incurious. It looked as if there would be no
questions. Still this was an opening. This seemed to be the time for
her to begin. And she began. She began by saying that she had always
felt like that. There were two of them, to live for each other. And if
he only knew what she had gone through!
Ensconced in his corner, with his arms folded, he stared out of the cab
window at the street. How little he was changed after all. It was the
unmovable expression, the faded stare she used to see on the esplanade
whenever walking by his side hand in hand she raised her eyes to his
face--while she chattered, chattered. It was the same stiff, silent
figure which at a word from her would turn rigidly into a shop and buy
her anything it occurred to her that she would like to have. Flora de
Barral's voice faltered. He bent on her that well-remembered glance in
which she had never read anything as a child, except the consciousness of
her existence. And that was enoug
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