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Have you not tired of sadness and pain?” 81 She thought she could hear tears in his voice but would not look at him. Tell me a story—with apple-blossoms in it—about people who are happy. No police officers or lurking storms were anywhere in sight. And a custom had grown up of a general tea at four o’clock, under the auspices of a Miss Garvice, a tall and graceful girl of distinguished intellectual incompetence, in whom the hostess instinct seemed to be abnormally developed. “You are very kind to think of it,” she said, “but—don’t you think perhaps—that I had better not?” He smiled indulgently. Perhaps the boys had already faced off and he had missed it, he thought sourly. Then a bit of colour flowed into his sunken white cheeks. It is not well that a daughter should talk to her father as Ruth talked to hers that day. Or was that perhaps because his business in Piccadilly the other day had gone awry? Perhaps Brewis Charvill had not welcomed him with open arms.
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