"Do you want to know exactly?"
"Word for word."
"I was thinking what a duffer father is—was, I mean."
A complete silence. Mrs. Ingestre stroked her daughter's hand and stared sightlessly into the deepening shadows. The smile had died from her lips.
"Go on," she said at last.
"I don't think there is anything else. I always think that when father talks about Providence and—and that sort of thing. I feel sometimes that if Providence took human shape and was in the room at the time I should wink—I am not sure I don't wink inside me, anyhow."
She waited, and then, as Mrs. Ingestre said nothing, she went on disconsolately:
"I know I am awful, darling. I wonder if other people have shocking ideas too, or whether I am the wicked exception?"
"I don't think so," Mrs. Ingestre said. "One can't help one's thoughts, you know."
"No, one can't; can one? The more one sits on them, the more uproarious they get. Are you cross?"