The happy
tears came to her eyes, and she passed on. She did not hear that little
last faint sob with which he sank exhausted back to earth beside a hidden
nest among the furrows.
She had forgotten the time. It was already late afternoon. Her long
walk and the keen air had made her hungry. She had a couple of eggs with
her tea at a village inn, and was fortunate enough to catch a train that
brought her back in time for dinner. A little ashamed of her
unresponsiveness the night before, she laid herself out to be sympathetic
to her father's talk. She insisted on hearing again all that he and
Arthur were doing, opposing him here and there with criticism just
sufficient to stimulate him; careful in the end to let him convince her.
These small hypocrisies were new to her. She hoped she was not damaging
her character. But it was good, watching him slyly from under drawn-down
lids, to see the flash of triumph that would come into his tired eyes in
answer to her half-protesting: "Yes, I see your point, I hadn't thought
of that," her half reluctant admission that "perhaps" he was right,
there; that "perhaps" she was wrong.
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