"Oh, yes, you've done well.... One thing more you might do—but I doubt if you could—let them feel that they could tell you anything, whatever they do. They might not tell you, wouldn't probably, but if they felt they could, without you being horrified, it would be better for them.... But of course you can only do that if you feel that what they want or need is a lot more important than what they do.... Sometimes I think, Mary, that you care more for what people do than for what they are.... Think it over."
Dr. Lowell folded his napkin and put it in its ring, got up and took out his pipe, filled it from a leather bag and lit it. An acrid smoke issued from the old meerschaum as he sank into an easy-chair by the fire. Mary hated that pipe, but now though she coughed in the smoke she didn't notice it. She had stood absorbed in some difficult and displeasing thought—but turning and looking at her father she saw how bent and shrivelled he looked in the big chair.
"Father, aren't you awfully lonely here in the evenings?" she asked suddenly.
"No, no—I've got lots of reading to do, journals and new books—I try to keep up with my profession, you know. No, I'm never lonely."
"I should think you'd miss Mother a lot."
"I do—yes, I miss her.... But it's quieter this way."
"Father! The things you say!"
"Why shouldn't I say them.... Your mother and I got on very well indeed, and if I ever see her again I guess we'll get on just as well."
"If you do! Why, don't you think you will?"