Kitty rang the bell at the house in Harrington Gardens. She was told that her father was in his study and going to the door she opened it softly: he was sitting by the fire reading the last edition of the evening paper. He looked up as she entered, put down the paper, and sprang nervously to his feet.
"Oh, Kitty, I didn't expect you till the later train."
"I thought you wouldn't want the bother of coming to meet me so I didn't wire the time I expected to arrive."
He gave her his cheek to kiss in the manner she so well remembered.
"I was just having a look at the paper," he said. "I haven't read the paper for the last two days."
She saw that he thought it needed some explanation if he occupied himself with the ordinary affairs of life.
"Of course," she said. "You must be tired out. I'm afraid mother's death has been a great shock to you."
He was older, and thinner than when she had last seen him. A little, lined, dried-up man, with a precise manner.
"The surgeon said there had never been any hope. She hadn't been herself for more than a year, but she refused to see a doctor. The surgeon told me that she must have been in constant pain, he said it was a miracle that she had been able to endure it."
"Did she never complain?"