The Canon’s other hand went out towards his daughter.
“Did I speak over-sharply, my daughter? Perhaps Mary was nearer my mood than Martha, just now—Martha, careful and troubled over many things. Go, then, children. Lucilla, you will come to me later. Until then, I do not wish to be disturbed again.”
With a heavy sigh, the Canon turned again to his writing-table.
Owen and Lucilla went out.
“He is terribly upset. Could he not be persuaded to come to dinner?”
“No, I knew he wouldn’t want that. But I shall take in a tray when I go to him later. Sometimes, if he’s talking, he eats without thinking about it. I was counting on that—and besides, he would have disliked my suggesting that he should come in to dinner as usual.”
Lucilla’s voice and her face alike were entirely guiltless of irony.
Quentillian followed her into the dining-room:
“The others have finished,” Lucilla said. “Would you rather I stayed, or that I went?”
“Stay, please.”