Maryan raised at his father a look from which a whole flood of irony rushed forth, and answered, with the edge of his lips:
"He alone is not a child who knows that we are all children, turning everything into playthings for ourselves. The point is that there are various playthings."
"Maryan!" whispered Malvina, with an alarm which she could not suppress.
Darvid turned his face to her suddenly, and their glances which till then had avoided each other carefully, met for a few seconds; but during that time Darvid's eyes filled with the glitter of keen steel, and Malvina bent her face so low over the plate that, in the sharp light, one could see only her forehead, with its one deep wrinkle. But that same moment Irene began to converse with her father about London, where he had spent a considerable time on two occasions. He answered her at once; spoke long, fluently, and interestingly, engaging also in the conversation Miss Mary, to whom he turned frequently and with pleasure.
Again the conversation went on smoothly, easily, deliberately. Above the table, in place of the odors of meats and sauces, hovered the light odors of fruit and vanilla. When the dessert was served, Darvid spoke of fruits peculiar to various climates which he had visited in his almost ceaseless journeys; all at once he stopped the conversation in mid-career, and turned to Cara, who struggled a few times with a dry and stubborn cough.
"I thought that you had recovered entirely. But you are coughing yet. That is sad!"
On the girl's face, which was flushing in a fiery manner, there was an expression of sorrow or anger. Quickly and broken came the words from her lips which were pouting like those of an angry child:
"There are so many sad things in the world, father, that my cough is a bit of dust compared with them."
This was an answer thoroughly unexpected, but the impression which it might have made was hindered at once by Irene through a laugh and an exclamation too loud, perhaps:
"See where pessimism is going to fix itself! Is Puffie sick?"