To-night there seemed to be a new brilliancy in her eyes, a deeper quality in her tone. His absence was thought by the charitable to be from grief. “Limp,” he answered. During the previous night he had been restless; and in the lonely dragging hours his thoughts had raced in an endless circle—action without progress. “This wonderful affection of yours for my sister, does it date from your first meeting with her in Paris?” He hesitated. She thought of her father in the garden, and of her aunt with her Patience, as she had seen them—how many ages was it ago? Just one day intervened. They'll be back soon enough—or not at all. When Sheila was in a bad mood, she berated her new foster daughter for streaks on the windows, dust on the figurines, for crooked bed sheet corners, and floors that had not been waxed properly. Gerald watched its approach with vague interest, which quickened when he saw that it was drawing up outside the very house out of which he had just stepped.
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