“Anne wrote to me,” repeated Gran’papa.
She moved restlessly.
“I can’t. I’ve no right any more.”
She stared across at him, questioning him with tired young eyes.
“Gran’papa—why is it? Why have we got to be so awfully unhappy?”
He muttered and smiled to himself, half hearing.
“The time—out of joint—that’s it—out of joint. In my young days—April showers in April—May flowers in May. Anne didn’t want a vote.”
“There was the Crimea. I suppose there were women—just the same—widows—and lovers——”
He drummed on the arm of his chair.
“Something is rotten in the state of Denmark. Do you ever read Shakespeare, my dear? I advise all young people——The young people have turned the world upside down.” He shivered. “It’s cold.”