"Do you mean with illness?"
She sadly shook her head. "Father's never ill. He's a marvel. He's only—endless."
Densher thought. "Can I in any way help you with him?"
"Yes." She perfectly, wearily, almost serenely, had it all. "By our making your visit as little of an affair as possible for him—and for Marian too."
"I see. They hate so your seeing me. Yet I couldn't—could I?—not have come."
"No, you couldn't not have come."
"But I can only, on the other hand, go as soon as possible?"
Quickly it almost upset her. "Ah don't, to-day, put ugly words into my mouth. I've enough of my trouble without it."
"I know—I know!" He spoke in instant pleading. "It's all only that I'm as troubled for you. When did he come?"
"Three days ago—after he hadn't been near her for more than a year, after he had apparently, and not regrettably, ceased to remember her existence; and in a state which made it impossible not to take him in."