“Earthly language is defective,” assented George. “I suppose that want will be fully supplied in heaven.”
Joan’s face said—“How?”
“Each word having its own absolute meaning, being in exact accordance with the thing signified, and being used always in its rightful sense. There will be no misunderstandings in heaven.”
“But you never misunderstand me, father. Other people do, of course.”
“I think you must have some fear of the possibility even with me, or you would find speaking out an easier task.”
There was no direct response to this. Joan said, after a minute—“We are almost there.”
“Is that tone just a little regretful?”
“N-no, father,” said Joan slowly. “Wales has been very delightful. But I couldn’t regret going home. Only—”
“My dear, I don’t think I quite understand you this evening,” said George.
“I don’t think I quite understand myself,” Joan answered, flashing a look up at him in the lamplight; “I was going to say—‘Only there is that old Mr. Brooke.’”