She got up.
"You're not going to tell him now?"
He stretched out a hand as if to detain her.
"Yes, now. Why not?" She rose with difficulty, paused, swayed a little and then went toward the door. Dick watched her without a word. His hand was in the pocket of his coat. He drew out a cigarette.
She went down the stairs holding the baluster tightly; her palm, moist from her nervousness, squeaked on the rail as she slid it along. She paused in the library door. Her father was lounging in his chair under the reading-lamp, his legs stretched toward the fire. She could just see the top of his head over the chair, the light falling on his gray hair.
"That you, Betsy?"
The cheer and warmth of his tone smote her; again her eyes closed in pain.
"Yes, it's I," she said, trying for a natural tone, and succeeding, at least, in putting into her voice a great love--and a great pity. She bent over the back of the chair, and laid her hands on his head, gazing into the fire. The touch of her hands sent a delicious thrill through Ward; he did not move or speak, wishing to prolong the sensation.
"Dear," she said, "I have something to tell you."
The delicious sensation left him instantly.