"She never
got over it?" he asked.
"Oh, there were times," answered Joan, "when she was more like her old
self again. But I don't think she ever quite got over it. Unless it was
towards the end," she added. "They told me she seemed much better for a
little while before she died. I was away at Cambridge at the time."
"Poor dear lady," he said, "all those years! And poor Jack Allway." He
seemed to be talking to himself. Suddenly he turned to her. "How is the
dear fellow?" he asked.
Again the question troubled her. She had not seen her father since that
week-end, nearly six months ago, when she had ran down to see him because
she wanted something from him. "He felt my mother's death very deeply,"
she answered. "But he's well enough in health."
"Remember me to him," he said. "And tell him I thank him for all those
years of love and gentleness. I don't think he will be offended."
He drove her back to Paris, and she promised to come and see him in his
studio and let him introduce her to his artist friends.
"I shall try to win you over, I warn you," he said.
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