"I'm sorry Nicholas couldn't get away," said Philip rather nervously. "It's very good of him to spare you. You're not looking quite as well as you generally do, my child."
This was Philip's nearest approach to an uncomplimentary statement.
"I'm tired," Lily said.
"Come, come, come," said Philip.
The bracing admonition was marred by his uncertain tone, and the anxious glances that he kept casting towards his daughter.
At last he said to her:
"My little pet, you're not fretting about anything, are you? I'm sorry to see you so—so pale."
Something in the kind, familiar, anxious tone stirred Lily suddenly. She began to cry.
"Poor little child!" said Philip.
He seemed less surprised than Lily had expected him to be, at her sudden weakness, and stroked her hair with hands that trembled a little.