She sat on the edge of the fender, and without looking up she knew that he was watching her from under half-shut eyelids. His eyelids were so old, so tired, so very tired and old. "What did you cut it all off for?" "Oh, just for fun." Without looking at him she knew that he had moved, that his chin had dropped to his chest; there would be a sort of puffiness in his cheeks and about his jaw under the black, close-clipped beard. When she saw it she felt a little creeping chill at her heart. But that was unfaithfulness, that was cruelty. If he knew it--poor thing--how it would hurt him! But he never would know. She would behave as though she hadn't seen any difference in him at all. If only she could set his mind moving; turn the crystal about; make it flash and shine. "What have they been doing to you?" he said. "You used to be clever. I wonder if you're clever still." "I don't think I am, very." She thought: "I'm stupid. I'm as stupid as an owl. I never felt so stupid in all my life. If only I could _think_ of something to say to him." "Did they tell you what I've come for?" "Yes." "Are you glad?" "Very glad." "Why do you sit on the fender?" "I'm cold." "Cold and glad." A long pause. "Do you know why your mother hates me, Mary?" "She doesn't. She only thought you'd killed Papa." "I didn't kill him. It wasn't my fault if he couldn't control his temper.... That isn't what she hates me for.... Do you know why you were sent to school--the school my aunt found for you?" "Well--to keep me from seeing you." "Yes. And because I asked your father to let me educate you, since he wasn't doing it himself. I wanted to send you to a school in Paris for two years." "I didn't know. They never told me. What made you want to do all that for me?" "It wasn't for you. It was for the little girl who used to go for walks with me.... She was the nicest little girl. She said the jolliest things in the dearest little voice. 'How can a man like _you_ care to talk to a child like _me_?'" "Did I say that? I don't remember." "_She_ said it." "It sounds rather silly of her." "She wasn't silly. She was clever as they make them. And she was pretty too. She had lots of hair, hanging down her back. Curling.... And they take her away from me and I wait three years for her. She knew I was waiting. And when I come back to her she won't look at me. She sits on the fender and stares at the fire. She wears horrible black clothes." "Because Papa's dead." "She goes and cuts her hair all off. That isn't because your father's dead." "It'll grow again." "Not for another three years. And I believe I hear your mother coming back." His chin dropped to his chest again. He brooded morosely. Presently Catty came in with the coffee. The next day he was gone. VI. "It seems to me," her mother said, "you only care for him when he isn't there."