At the sound of the closing of the door they both looked up. Over the colonel’s visage the same childishly embarrassed expression flitted that Viola had noticed a few days before. Corinne, on the contrary, merely gave the newcomer the short side look of begrudged attention, and returned to the cards, murmuring, “It’s only Viola.”
The girl went across to her father, and taking his hand, curled her soft fingers around it in a warm, infolding clasp.
“Mrs. Seymour says you haven’t been well,” she said.
The unexpected caress made the old man forget the game, and his face flushed with pleasure. He leaned toward her with the content of a forgiven child.
“It was nothing—just a little turn like I had the other day. First a pain, and then something comes fluttering up near your throat. The heat knocked me out. But it scared Corinne.”
“He got the color of the pitcher,” said Corinne, not moving her eyes from the cards, but sparing enough time to give a jerk of her head in the direction of a white china water-pitcher on the table.
“You ought to have seen Corinne. She went out in the passage and made a noise as if there was a fire.”
“I was scairt,” said Corinne, “and hollered for mommer. I don’t want you to scare me that way again, colonel.”
The colonel and Viola laughed.