Twilight Sleep
Her father had withdrawn his stare from the outer world and turned it toward the morning paper on the book-stand beside his plate. With lids lowered and fixed lips he looked strangely different again—rather like his own memorial hust in bronze. She shivered a little. . .
"Father! Your coffee's getting cold."
He pushed aside the paper, glanced at the letters piled by his plate, and lifted his eyes to Nona's. The twinkle she always woke seemed to struggle up to her from a long way off.
"I missed my early tramp and don't feel particularly enthusiastic about breakfast."
"It's not enthusiastic weather."
"No." He had grown absent-minded again. "Pity; when we've so few days left."
"It may clear, though."
What stupid things they were saying! Much either he or she cared about the weather, when they were in the country and had the prospect of a good tramp or a hard gallop together. Not that they had had many such lately; but then she had been busy with her mother, trying to make up for Maisie's absence; and there had been the interruption caused by the week-end party; and he had been helping to keep Lita amused—with success, apparently.
"Yes. . . I shouldn't wonder if it cleared." He frowned out toward the sky again. "Round about midday." He paused, and added: "I thought of running Lita over to Greystock."
