What Reuben had said had set me thinking. I wondered whether it was neither altogether distress at Frank's accident, nor fatigue from the walk, that had made father depressed at tea-time. He was not in the dwelling-room, neither was mother. There were papers strewn over the table, and an inkstand with pen aslant across it stood in the midst. The papers were evidently accounts, and somebody had been working at them.
I supposed it might be Trayton Harrod, for he was still there, contrary to his wont; but he was not seated at the table. He was standing up before the big, empty fireplace, and in one of the deep spindle-railed chairs at the side sat my sister Joyce. I fancied that he moved a little as I came in, but I was not sure.
"Where's father?" asked I, sharply.
I looked at Joyce, but she did not reply.
"Your father is in the study, I believe," said Harrod. "He was here doing some work with me, and did not feel so very well. I believe your mother is with him."
"Oh, I suppose the news of Captain Forrester's accident upset him," said I. "He is so very fond of him."
There was silence. The fact of Joyce's not speaking somehow exasperated me.
"Do you think that was the reason, Joyce?" asked I.
"I don't know, I'm sure," she answered.