CHAPTER VII
MRS. WESTMORE TAKES A HAND
“What are you playing, Alice?”
The daughter arose from the piano and kissed her mother, holding for a moment the pretty face, crowned with white hair, between her two palms.
“It—it is an old song which Tom and I used to love to sing.”
The last of the sentence came so slowly that it sank almost into silence, as of one beginning a sentence and becoming so absorbed in the subject as to forget the speech. Then she turned again to the piano, as if to hide from her mother the sorrow which had crept into her face.
“You should cease to think of that. Such things are dreams—at present we are confronted by very disagreeable realities.”