Edith stared.
Father craned his thin, old neck, looking, too.
“Did you—ever see the like, Edith?” cried Emily, in a little rush.
And Edith softly clasped her hands. Softly she sang “No, I never did, Emily. I’ve never seen anything just like this before.”
“Sims to me a nice room,” quavered Father, still hovering. “Do you girls wanna change it?”
Change it! “Why, Father dear, it’s just the loveliest thing we’ve ever set eyes on, isn’t it, Emily? Sit down, Father dear, sit down in the armchair.”
Father’s pale claws gripped the velvet arms. He lowered himself, he sank with an old man’s quick sigh.
Edith still stood, as if bewitched, at the door. But Emily ran over to the window and leaned out, quite girlish....
For a long time now—for how long?—for countless ages—Father and the girls had been on the wing. Nice, Montreux, Biarritz, Naples, Mentone, Lake Maggiore, they had seen them all and many, many more. And still they beat on, beat on, flying as if unwearied, never stopping anywhere for long. But the truth was—Oh, better not enquire what the truth was. Better not ask what it was that kept them going. Or why the only word that daunted Father was the word—home....
Home! To sit around, doing nothing, listening to the clock, counting up the years, thinking back ... thinking! To stay fixed in one place as if waiting for something or somebody. No! no! Better far to be blown over the earth like the husk, like the withered pod that the wind carries and drops and bears off again.