"One more reason for writing in the sense I propose, then," her father declared, "since it sets your over-modest doubts and qualms at rest, my dear. That is settled."
His hands weighed on her shoulders as though he suddenly needed and sought support.
"I will sit down," he said. "There are other matters to be discussed, and
I can, perhaps, talk more easily so."
He went the few steps across to the red chair. Sank into it. Leaned against the pillows, bending backward, his hand pressed to his left side. His features contracted, and his breath caught as of one spent with running. And Damaris, watching him, again received that desolating impression of change, of his being in spirit far removed, inaccessible to her sympathy, a stranger. He had gone away and rather terribly left her alone.
"Are you in pain?" she asked, agonized.
"Discomfort," he replied. "We will not dignify this by the name of pain.
But I must wait for a time before dictating the letter. There's something
I will ask you to do for me, my dear, meanwhile."
"Yes"—He paused, shifted his position, closed his eyes.
"Have you held any communication with—"
He stopped, for the question irked him. Even at this pass it went against the grain with him to ask of his daughter news of his son.
But in that pause our maiden's scattered wits very effectually returned to her.