Chance

Moved by this declaration, wondering that it did not warm her heart more,

she murmured a few endearing words while the uppermost thought in her

mind was that she must tell him now of the situation. She had expected

to be questioned anxiously about herself--and while she desired it she

shrank from the answers she would have to make. But her father seemed

strangely, unnaturally incurious. It looked as if there would be no

questions. Still this was an opening. This seemed to be the time for

her to begin. And she began. She began by saying that she had always

felt like that. There were two of them, to live for each other. And if

he only knew what she had gone through!

Ensconced in his corner, with his arms folded, he stared out of the cab

window at the street. How little he was changed after all. It was the

unmovable expression, the faded stare she used to see on the esplanade

whenever walking by his side hand in hand she raised her eyes to his

face--while she chattered, chattered. It was the same stiff, silent

figure which at a word from her would turn rigidly into a shop and buy

her anything it occurred to her that she would like to have. Flora de

Barral's voice faltered. He bent on her that well-remembered glance in

which she had never read anything as a child, except the consciousness of

her existence. And that was enough for a child who had never known

demonstrative affection. But she had lived a life so starved of all

feeling that this was no longer enough for her. What was the good of

telling him the story of all these miseries now past and gone, of all

those bewildering difficulties and humiliations? What she must tell him

was difficult enough to say. She approached it by remarking cheerfully:

"You haven't even asked me where I am taking you." He started like a

somnambulist awakened suddenly, and there was now some meaning in his

stare; a sort of alarmed speculation. He opened his mouth slowly. Flora

struck in with forced gaiety. "You would never, guess."

He waited, still more startled and suspicious. "Guess! Why don't you

tell me?"

He uncrossed his arms and leaned forward towards her. She got hold of

one of his hands. "You must know first . . . " She paused, made an

effort: "I am married, papa."

For a moment they kept perfectly still in that cab rolling on at a steady

jog-trot through a narrow city street full of bustle. Whatever she

expected she did not expect to feel his hand snatched away from her grasp

as if from a burn or a contamination. De Barral fresh from the stagnant

torment of the prison (where nothing happens) had not expected that sort

of news. It seemed to stick in his throat. In strangled low tones he

cried out, "You--married? You, Flora! When? Married! What for? Who

to? Married!"