Silence held them awhile in thrall. Barbara was leaning against the jamb of the chimney, one hand laid along her cheek, her eyes full of the past. It was as though some sharp struggle were passing within her, and for a moment her eyes had a glitter of anger. But the gleam passed from them, and her mouth softened.
She looked down at the man with a mystery of a smile—a smile with no mirth in it, but full of sadness, yearning, and self-reproach.
“John.”
He started, almost as though he had forgotten her.
“Do you love your father?”
The question seemed to stagger him; he frowned at the fire.
“Love that!”
She rested her head upon her arm; his scorn had made the heart leap in her.
“I did, John, my father. And then—What misery! What greater shame!”
“But you—”