"Oh Lud, yes, he's a fool for his wisdom. But he's my father."
"Well, sir?" Harry scowled at the ground. "Oh, what does he matter? Harry, what does anything matter to-day—or to-morrow, or to-morrow's to-morrow?"
"I had no guess of all this." Harry crushed the paper. "You believe that?"
"Oh, silly, silly."
"You're still content?"
"Not yet," Alison said.
CHAPTER XIV
SPECTATORS OF PARADISE
In the old house on the hill Mrs. Weston sat alone. She was looking out of the oriel window at a garden of wintry emptiness and wind swept. The westerly gale roared and moaned, the heavy earth was sodden and beaten into hollows and pools through which broke tiny pale points of snowdrops. Away beyond the first terrace of lawn the roses bowed and tossed wild arms. A silvery gleam of sunlight fell on the turf, glistened, and was gone. Mrs. Weston sat with her hands in her lap and her needle at rest in a half-worked piece of linen. A veil of languor had fallen upon the wistfulness of her face. Her bosom hardly stirred. The sound of the opening door broke her dream, and she picked up her work and began to sew eagerly. It was Susan Burford who came in, royally neat in her riding-habit, for all the storm. She walked in her leisurely, spacious fashion to Mrs. Weston, who started and stood up, laughing nervously. "Indeed Alison will be pleased. You are kind. I know she has been longing to see you."
Susan laughed and, a large young goddess of health, stooped to kiss the worn face. "You always talk about somebody else. Are you pleased?"