And Felix thought: 'I've been brought up to believe that only Russian girls care for truth. It seems I was wrong. The saints forbid I should be a stumbling-block to my own daughter searching for it! And yet—where's it all leading? Is this the same child that told me only the other night she wanted to know everything? She's a woman now! So much for love!' And he said:
“Let's go forward quietly, without expecting too much of ourselves.”
“Yes, Dad; only I distrust myself so.”
“No one ever got near the truth who didn't.”
“Can we go over to Joyfields to-morrow? I don't think I could bear a whole day of Bigwigs and eating, with this hanging—”
“Poor Bigwigs! All right! We'll go. And now, bed; and think of nothing!”
Her whisper tickled his ear:
“You are a darling to me, Dad!”
He went out comforted.
And for some time after she had forgotten everything he leaned out of his window, smoking cigarettes, and trying to see the body and soul of night. How quiet she was—night, with her mystery, bereft of moon, in whose darkness seemed to vibrate still the song of the cuckoos that had been calling so all day! And whisperings of leaves communed with Felix.