“I don’t think so.”
“Yes,” said Finn. “That must be it. I am sure of it. Perhaps it was the one who built the house. You see, it forms part and parcel of the old room ... it sums it all up. If there was nothing else but the fountain, it would all be here just the same. I must ask father.”
She shivered with cold and Finn shut the door:
“We are chilly people,” he said. “Both of us. We are not like father. He laughed at me yesterday when I came down to his room to say good-morning and wanted to shut the window. ‘Don’t, Finn,’ he said. ‘The autumn air is bracing and healthy, it makes one young again ... sit in the draught and don’t be afraid, old man that you are!’”
“Yes, father is strong.”
Finn looked at her stealthily.
He had soon understood that his parents had drifted apart while he was abroad; and he suffered in consequence. He was as kind and affectionate to his mother as ever; but his thoughts were always harking back to Cordt, whatever they might be talking of:
“Father is so sad,” he said.
“I haven’t noticed it.”
She colored after saying this. But Finn was not looking at her, scarcely heard her reply: