"Yes, Clive."
"So near!" he said aloud to himself. "Couldn't he have spoken to me?—just one word—"
"Dearest—dearest!"
"God knows why you should see him and I shouldn't! I don't understand—when I was his son—"
"I do not understand either, Clive."
He seemed not to hear her, standing there with blank gaze shifting from object to object in the room. "I don't understand," he kept repeating in a dull, almost querulous voice,—"I don't understand why." And her heart responded in a passion of tenderness and grief. But she found no further words to say to him, no explanation that might comfort him.
"Will he ever come here—anywhere—again?" he asked suddenly.
"Oh, Clive, I don't know."
"Don't you know? Couldn't you find out?"
"How? I don't know how to find out. I never try to inquire."