Ruthita saw me. Her sewing fell from her lap. In a trice she was racing towards me.
“You! You!” she cried.
Her thin arms went round me. Suddenly I felt miles distant from her because I was unworthy.
“Why did you come back?” she asked me. There was a note of anxiety in her voice. She searched my bronzed face.
“To see you, chickabiddy.”
“No, no. That’s not true,” she whispered; but she pressed her cheek against my shoulder as though she were willing to distrust her own denial. “You can get on quite well without me, Dannie; you would never have come back to see me only.”
The Snow Lady touched me on the elbow. Her eyes were excited and full of questioning. She gazed quickly from me to Ruthita. With a self-consciousness which was foreign to both of us, we dropped our eyes under her gaze and separated. Ruthita excused herself, saying that she would go and tell my father.
The Snow Lady offered me her cheek; it was soft and velvety. Slipping her arm through mine, she led me away to the apple-tree under which they had been sitting. She was still the frail little Madam Favart, half-frivolous, half-saintly; my father’s intense reticence had subdued, but not quite silenced her gaiety. Her silver hair was as abundant as ever and her figure as girlish; but her face had tired lines, especially about the eyes. I sat myself on the grass at her feet.
“How is he?” I asked.
“Your father?”