"I don't mean just for a little trip. I mean to live. Take a little two-room apartment in one of the new buildings—near my studio—and relax. Enjoy yourselves. Meet new men and women. Live! You're in a rut—both of you. Besides, dad needs it. That rheumatism of his, with these Wisconsin winters—"
"But California—we could go to California—"
"That's only a stop-gap. Get your little place in New York all settled, and then run away whenever you like, without feeling that this great bulk of a house is waiting for you. Father hates it; I know it."
"Did he ever say so?"
"Well, practically. He thinks you're fond of it. He—"
Slow steps ascending the stairs—heavy, painful steps. The two women listened in silence. Every footfall seemed to emphasize Pinky's words. The older woman turned her face toward the sound, her lips parted, her eyes anxious, tender.
"How tired he sounds," said Pinky; "and old. And he's only—why, dad's only fifty-eight."
"Fifty-seven," snapped Mrs. Brewster sharply, protectingly.
Pinky leaned forward and kissed her. "Good night, mummy dear. You're so tired, aren't you?"
Her father stood in the doorway.