"
Cecilia saw that she would cry no more, and since it was the sight of
tears which had so disturbed her, she gave the girl a little hesitating
stroke, and went away. Outside she thought: 'How dreadfully unlucky and
pathetic; and there's father in the drawing-room!' Then she hurried down
to Mr. Stone.
He was sitting where he had first placed himself, motionless. It struck
her suddenly how frail and white he looked. In the shadowy light of
her drawing-room, he was almost like a spirit sitting there in his
grey tweed--silvery from head to foot. Her conscience smote her. It is
written of the very old that they shall pass, by virtue of their long
travel, out of the country of the understanding of the young, till the
natural affections are blurred by creeping mists such as steal across
the moors when the sun is going down.
Cecilia's heart ached with a little ache for all the times she had
thought: 'If father were only not quite so---'; for all the times she
had shunned asking him to come to them, because he was so---; for all
the silences she and Stephen had maintained after he had spoken; for all
the little smiles she had smiled. She longed to go and kiss his brow,
and make him feel that she was aching. But she did not dare; he seemed
so far away; it would be ridiculous.
Coming down the room, and putting her slim foot on the fender with a
noise, so that if possible he might both see and hear her, she turned
her anxious face towards him, and said: "Father!"
Mr.
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