They sat down on the sofa side by side, Toppie still holding her hand, and then she said: “Toppie, I had not realized from your letter that your father was so ill.”
Toppie looked at her in silence for a moment and, slowly, her eyes filled with tears. “He is going to leave me, Alix,” she said.
It was her father, then. Alix could not but feel the deep, selfish relief. “Oh, you must hope,” she said.
“I do try to hope. I try to live on hope. But I am afraid he is going to leave me,” Toppie repeated. “He is not much changed,” she went on, for Alix found nothing to say. “You will not see much change in him, I am sure. I will take you up to him presently. He likes to follow what goes on. In a way he follows more than he has ever done. It is a sort of clinging, I think. And he is quite cut off from his own work. I read to him a great deal. Perhaps you will come sometimes and read to him in French. He likes that, you know.”
“I like it, too. You must let me come often. It is curious, Toppie, but when Giles is away my English life is really here with you; not that I am not very fond of them all at Heathside.”
“Is it?” Toppie looked at her very intently. “I am glad of that. Glad that I can mean home to you.—Dear little Alix.—But you are fond of them.”
“Especially of Mrs. Bradley. Only she is there so little. One hardly sees her. I am fond of Ruth and Rosemary, too. But I would rather be with you.” Alix smiled a little.
“And it will be Rosemary only this winter, since Ruth is going to Oxford. I am glad she is to be there. Giles will like having her near him.” Toppie spoke calmly the name of Giles.
“Do you think so?” said Alix. “Do you think she means much to Giles?”
“He is devoted to all his family. It will certainly be a pleasure to him to have her,” said Toppie, and Alix now thought she detected in her voice a strange detachment.