When he talked he coughed. A dreadful sound, as if he dragged up out of himself a long, rattling chain.
It hurt you to look at him. Pity hurt you.
Once he had been young, like Roddy. Then he had been middle-aged, with hanging jaw and weak eyelids, like Dr. Charles. Now he was old, old; he sat doubled up, coughing and weeping, in a chair. But you could see that Miss Kendal was proud of him. She thought him wonderful because he kept on living.
Supposing he was your father and you had to sit with him, all your life, in a room smelling of rotten apples, could you bear it? Could you bear it for a fortnight? Wouldn't you wish—wouldn't you wish—supposing Papa—all your life.
But if you couldn't bear it that would mean—
No. No. She put her hand on the arm of his chair, to protect him, to protect him from her thoughts.
The claw fingers scrabbled, groping for her hand.
"Would ye like to be an old man's bed-fellow?"
"Pussy says it isn't her bed-time yet, Father."
When you went away Miss Kendal stood on the doorstep looking after you.
The last you saw of her was a soft grimace of innocent gaiety.