noticing her. She stood on the door-mat, fastening the door, striving to find something to say to him.
“You have been over an hour,” she said, still more troubled when she found her voice shaking. She had no idea what alarmed her.
“Ay,” returned Siegmund.
He went into the dining-room and dropped into his chair, with his head between his hands. Vera followed him nervously.
“Will you have anything to eat?” she asked.
He looked up at the table, as if the supper laid there were curious and incomprehensible. The delirious lifting of his eyelids showed the whole of the dark pupils and the blood-shot white of his eyes. Vera held her breath with fear. He sank his head again and said nothing. Vera sat down and waited. The minutes ticked slowly off. Siegmund neither moved nor spoke. At last the clock struck midnight. She was weary with sleep, querulous with trouble.
“Aren’t you going to bed?” she asked.
Siegmund heard her without paying any attention. He seemed only to half hear. Vera waited awhile, then repeated plaintively:
“Aren’t you going to bed, father?”
Siegmund lifted his head and looked at her. He loathed the idea of having to move. He looked at her confusedly.
“Yes, I’m going,” he said, and his head dropped again. Vera knew he was not asleep. She dared not leave him till he was in his bedroom. Again she sat waiting.
“Father!” she cried at last.
