of rage, and pity, and shame into the towel. The only sound in the room was the occasional sharp breathing of Beatrice. Siegmund sat without the trace of a movement, almost without breathing. His head was ducked low; he dared never lift it, he dared give no sign of his presence.
Presently Beatrice put down the child, and went to join Vera in the scullery. There came the low sound of women’s talking—an angry, ominous sound. Gwen followed her mother. Her little voice could be heard cautiously asking:
“Mam, is dad cross—is he? What did he do?”
“Don’t bother!” snapped Vera. “You are a little nuisance! Here, take this into the dining-room, and don’t drop it.”
The child did not obey. She stood looking from her mother to her sister. The latter pushed a dish into her hand.
“Go along,” she said, gently thrusting the child forth.
Gwen departed. She hesitated in the kitchen. Her father still remained unmoved. The child wished to go to him, to speak to him, but she was afraid. She crossed the kitchen slowly, hugging the dish; then she came slowly back, hesitating. She sidled into the kitchen; she crept round the table inch by inch, drawing nearer her father. At about a yard from his chair she stopped. He, from under his bent brows, could see her small feet in brown slippers, nearly kicked through at the toes, waiting and moving nervously near him. He pulled himself together, as a man does who watches the surgeon’s lancet suspended over his
