He put his hand out to take hers, in a way that she had never yet failed to respond to. But she did not take it. It wasn't, apparently, of the least interest to her to be told how much he loved her. There was no comfort at all in that, to her who had so often shown herself hungry for the caresses that showed his love. She sat still, looking out of the window, and saying nothing for a long time. He said nothing either, but took up one of the papers he had bought. He made himself read it with attention, and succeeded in taking in what he read after a few attempts. His heart was heavy enough; there would be a great deal more to go through yet before there could be any return to the old conditions of affection and contentment between him and this dear hurt child of his. But all had been said that could profitably be said. It would be much better to put it aside now, and act as if it were not there, as far as it was possible, and encourage her to do so. She was strangely quiet, sitting there half-turned away from him with her eyes always fixed upon the summer landscape now flowing steadily past them; and yet she was, by temperament, more emotional than any of his children. None of them had ever cried much--they had had very little in their lives to cry about--but Beatrix had been more easily moved to tears than the others. She might have been expected to cry over what she was feeling now. Perhaps she wouldn't begin to get over the blow that had been dealt her until she did cry. He felt an immense pity and tenderness for her, sitting there as still as a mouse. He would have liked to put his arm around her and draw her to him, and soothe her trouble, which she should have sobbed out on his shoulder as she had done with the little troubles of her childhood. But that unknown quantity in her restrained him. He knew instinctively that she would reject him as the consoler of this trouble. He was the cause of it in her poor wounded groping little mind. Presently she roused herself and took up an illustrated paper, which she glanced through, saying as she did so, in a colourless voice: "Shall we be able to get some tea at Ganton? I've got rather a headache." "Have you, my darling?" he said tenderly. "Yes, we shall have five minutes there. Haven't you any phenacetin in your bag?" "Yes; but it isn't as bad as that," she said. "I'll take some when I get home, if it's worse." "Give me a kiss, my little B," he said. "You do love your old Daddy, don't you?" She kissed him obediently. "Yes, of course," she said, and returned to her paper.