When I told my mother how Cousin Geoffrey said she was the only relative who was not kind, she turned her head away.
I knew why she did this—she did not want me to see the tears in her eyes.
The week passed.
I got up early on the morning which saw its completion, and went down-stairs myself to answer the postman’s ring.
There was no letter for me. I did not cry, nor show disappointment in any way. On the contrary I was particularly cheerful, only that day I would not talk at all about Cousin Geoffrey.
In the evening my father returned by an earlier train than usual; my brothers had not come back with him. He came straight into our little drawing-room without removing his muddy boots, as his usual custom was. My mother and I had just lighted the lamp; the curtains were drawn. My mother was bending over her eternal mending and darning.
When my father entered the room my mother scarcely raised her head. I did—I was about to remark that he was home in specially good time, when I noticed something strange in his face. He raised his eyebrows, and glanced significantly towards the door.
I knew he wanted me to leave the room; he had something to say to my mother.
I went away. My father and mother remained alone together for about a quarter of an hour. Then he came out of the drawing-room, called to me to get supper ready at once, and went up to his own room.
I helped our one maid to put the dishes on the table, and then rushed into the drawing-room to my mother.