"No. I understand."
"Of course you do," he mumbled. He held her fingers again and she could not draw them away. Nor could she ask him about the insurance while he clung like that, so weak, so changed, so suddenly dependent upon her. And she had never loved him. She did not love him now. She could never love him. The tragedy lay in that—she never could. He might grow better. He might grow worse. She might be there a long time, doing the horrible, intimate things nurses did for hire, to Anne revolting, except for deep love. She would do them to save his nerves from Hilda, the woman with whom he had lived for more than thirty years; who did not understand his blurred speech, whose every motion disturbed him; Hilda, sitting in the kitchen waiting to hear whether he had gambled away her only hope of independence when he had gone.
Anne slipped her hand from his, covering its withdrawal by soft little taps on the back of his. She must ask him now, while her presence still held something of the unusual. In a few days he would have accepted her ministering. All the small tyranny of him would have risen in defiance of his dependence on them. She must do it now, or not at all. Without preamble, Anne asked quietly:
"Papa, things may be a little tight for the present. Do you think we might raise a little money on your life insurance? As soon as we can reach Belle——"
With sudden strength his fingers clutched her arm, and he gripped it until she felt the bones press into her flesh. His eyes were full of anger, fear, defiance. With a terrible effort he drew her down, motioning with his slightly twisted lips not to let Hilda hear.
"I haven't got—it—Annie. I—thought—I had a sure—thing—it was sure—and I staked—it's gone," he ended in a squeaking note of fear and anger.
Anne patted his shoulder and tried to speak cheerfully, "Never mind, papa. Never mind. Don't think about it."
That fearful squeak, like a mouse caught in a trap.
"Don't—tell—her, Annie. She'll fuss me about it and—I meant it right. It—was for her—I don't want anything for myself—it was a sure thing. Just my luck—any one would have taken—the tip."
And there was nothing Anne could find to say, although she seemed to be tearing her brain apart in an effort to find a thought. She could only whisper absently, over and over: