“Loneliness,” he said, “is man's chief fault”; and seeing his pen lying on the desk, he tried to lift his hand. Bianca held it down. At that hot clasp something seemed to stir in Mr. Stone. His cheeks grew pink.
“Kiss me, Dad.”
Mr. Stone hesitated. Then his lips resolutely touched her eye. “It is wet,” he said. He seemed for a moment struggling to grasp the meaning of moisture in connection with the human eye. Soon his face again became serene. “The heart,” he said, “is a dark well; its depth unknown. I have lived eighty years. I am still drawing water.”
“Draw a little for me, Dad.”
This time Mr. Stone looked at his daughter anxiously, and suddenly spoke, as if afraid that if he waited he might forget.
“You are unhappy!”
Bianca put her face down to his tweed sleeve. “How nice your coat smells!” she murmured.
“You are unhappy,” repeated Mr. Stone.
Bianca dropped his hand, and moved away.
Mr. Stone followed her. “Why?” he said. Then, grasping his brow, he added: “If it would do you any good, my dear, to hear a page or two, I could read to you.”