It was just what Richard could not do, and he made some observation to change the subject, but Ethel returned to it, so far as to beg to know how the arm was going on, for she did not like to say anything about it to papa.
“It will be a long business, I am afraid,” said Richard. “Indeed, he said the other day, he thought he should never have the free use of the elbow.”
“And do you think it is very painful? I saw the other day, when Aubrey was sitting on his knee and fidgeting, he shrank whenever he even came towards it, and yet it seemed as if he could not bear to put him down.”
“Yes it is excessively tender, and sometimes gets very bad at night.”
“Ah,” said Ethel; “there’s a line—here—round his eyes, that there never used to be, and when it deepens, I am sure he is in pain, or has been kept awake.”
“You are very odd, Ethel; how do you see things in people’s faces, when you miss so much at just the same distance?”
“I look after what I care about,” said Ethel. “One sees more with one’s mind than one’s eyes. The best sight is inside.”
“But do you always see the truth?” said Richard gravely.
“Quite enough. What is less common than the ordinary world?” said Ethel.
Richard shook his head, not quite satisfied, but not sure enough that he entered into her meaning to question it.