"I don't want to be taken care of, thank you," she said, as politely as she could.
Aldo laughed through his tears. "Dear, funny little child of mine," he cried, kissing her hand and her sleeve.
Anne-Marie was matter-of-fact. "Good-bye," she said decisively. "If you want an autograph, I will give you one."
Aldo caught her by both arms, gazing into her face with blurred eyes. "Anne-Marie! Anne-Marie! you said you remembered me! Don't you know who I am? Don't you remember your father, Anne-Marie, who used to sing 'Celeste Aïda, forma divina' to you when you were ill, and who took you to see the squirrels in the park? Anne-Marie, don't you remember me?"
Anne-Marie's underlip trembled. She shook her head. Aldo rose from his knees. He turned away and hid his face in his hands.
Anne-Marie tiptoed to her mother's side, and nestled in her encircling arm. Then her eyes wandered upwards in search of the balloon. There it was, close to the ceiling. Anne-Marie thought that it looked smaller than it was before. She wondered how she would ever get it down again.
Nancy had turned her face—a pinched white face that also looked smaller, thought Anne-Marie—towards her, and spoke in a low voice.
"Anne-Marie, he is your father."
"Is he?" said Anne-Marie, glancing at the tall figure with the sloping shoulders and the hidden face, and then at the hat on the chair.
"Shall he stay with us?" questioned Nancy under her breath.