She was still sitting up, nursing her knees, and staring straight in front of her at nothing.
"You don't know what it's like," she said; "the unbearable pathos of Papa."
"It's your pathos that's unbearable."
"Oh don't! Don't be nice to me. I shall hate you if you're nice to me." She paused, staring. "I was unkind to him yesterday. I see how pathetic he is, and yet I'm unkind. I snap like a little devil. You don't know what a devil, what a detestable little devil I can be."
She turned to him, sparing herself no pain in her confession.
"I was cruel to him. It's horrible, like being cruel to a child." The horror of it was in her stare.
"It's your nerves," he said; "it's because you're always frightened." He seemed to meditate before he spoke again. "How are you going on?"
"You see how."
"I do indeed. It's unbearable to think of your having to endure these things. And I have to stand by and see you at the end of your tether, hurt and frightened, and to know that I can do nothing for you. If I could have my way you would never be hurt or frightened any more."
As he spoke something gave way in her. It felt like a sudden weakening and collapse of her will, drawing her heart with it.