is a grave expression to his face. His eyes are full of a quick-tempered sensitiveness. He does not noticeably resemble his mother. He looks nothing at all like his father. He seems to have sprung from a line distinct from any of the people we have seen.
Darrell has aged greatly. His hair is streaked with gray. He has grown stout. His face is a bit jowly and puffy under the eyes. The features have become blurred. He has the look of a man with no definite aim or ambition to which he can relate his living. His eyes are embittered and they hide his inner self-resentment behind a pose of cynical indifference.
Gordon
[Thinking as he plays—resentfully]
I wish Darrell’d get out of here! . . . why couldn’t Mother let me run my own birthday? . . . I’d never had him here, you bet! . . . what’s he always hanging ’round for? . . . why don’t he go off on one of his old trips again . . . last time he was gone more’n a year . . . I was hoping he’d died! . . . what makes Mother like him so much? . . . she makes me sick! . . . I’d think she’d get sick of the old fool and tell him to get out and never come back! . . . I’d kick him out if I was big enough! . . . it’s good for him he didn’t bring me any birthday present or I’d smash it first chance I got! . . .
Nina
[Watching him—brooding with loving tenderness—sadly]
No longer my baby . . . my little man . . . eleven . . . I can’t believe it . . . I’m thirty-five . . . five years
