A wave of pity swept over Viola. All in an instant her rancour took flight and in its place came a longing to steal over and throw her arms about those bent shoulders and whisper words of remorse. Desolation hung over that silent, thinking figure. Viola's heart swelled with renewed anger toward Kenneth Gwynne.
What had he said or done to wound this stony, indomitable mother of hers?
The room was cold. The fire had died down; only the huge backlog showed splotches of red against the charred black; in front of it were the faintly smoking ashes of a once sprightly blaze. She shivered, and then, moved by a sudden impulse, strode softly over and took down from its peg beside the fireplace the huge turkey wing used in blowing the embers to life. She was vigorously fanning the backlog when a sound from behind indicated that her mother had risen from the chair. She smiled as she glanced over her shoulder.
Her mother was standing with one of her hands pressed tightly to her eyes. Her lips were moving.
"He is Robert—Robert himself," she was murmuring. "As like as two peas. I was afraid he might be—would be—" The words trailed off into a mumble, for she had lowered her hand and was staring in dull surprise at Viola.
"What is it, mother?" cried the girl, alarmed by the other's expression. "What were you saying?"
After a moment her mother said, quite calmly: "Oh, it's you, is it? When did you get home?"
"A few minutes ago. How cold it is! The fire is almost out. Shall I get some kindling and start it up?"
"Yes. I don't know how I came to let it go down."
When Viola returned from the kitchen with the fagots and a bunch of shavings, the older woman was standing in front of the fireplace staring moodily down at the ashes. She moved to one side while her daughter laid the kindling and placed three or four sticks of firewood upon the heap. Not a word was spoken until after Viola had fanned a tiny flame out of the embers and lighted the shavings with a spill.