The door opened. He felt violently startled; yet there was no movement perceptible. Vera entered, ostensibly for an autograph-album into which she was going to copy a drawing from the London Opinion, really to see what her father was doing. He did not move a muscle. He only longed intensely for his daughter to go out of the room, so that he could let go. Vera went out of the drawing-room humming to herself. Apparently she had not even glanced at her father. In reality, she had observed him closely.
“He is sitting with his head in his hands,” she said to her mother.
Beatrice replied: “I’m glad he’s nothing else to do.”
“I should think he’s pitying himself,” said Vera.
“He’s a good one at it,” answered Beatrice.
Gwen came forward and took hold of her mother’s skirt, looking up anxiously.
“What is he doing, Mam?” she asked.
“Nothing,” replied her mother—“nothing; only sitting in the drawing-room.”
“But what has he been doing?” persisted the anxious child.
“Nothing—nothing that I can tell you. He’s only spoilt all our lives.”