"Where's Father?"
She winced at the word "Father," so out of keeping with his habitual levity. It was the first intimation that there was something wrong with him.
"He's upstairs, my dear, in His bed."
"What's the matter with him?"
"It's the Headache." She went on to explain, taking him as it were surreptitiously into the little room, that the Headache had been frequent lately, not to say continuous; not even Sundays were exempt.
"He's a sad sufferer," she said.
Instead of replying with something suitable, Ranny set his teeth.
She had sat down helplessly, and as she spoke she gazed up at him where he remained standing by the chimney-piece; her look pleaded, deprecated, yet obstinately endeavored to deceive. But for once Ranny was blind to the pathos of her deception. Vaguely her foolish secrecy irritated him.
"Look here, Mother," he said, "I want to talk to you. I've got to tell you something."
"It's not anything about your Father, Ranny?"