He reddened and looked down at his plate.
"You don't understand," he said. "I'm strapped, my child--I can't help
it--I'm poor."
"Oh. Oh, dad. I'm sorry." He glanced up at his daughter and saw tears
welling in her eyes. How utterly miserable both of them were.
"It's the war," he said harshly and proudly. This made a difference to his
pride, but not to his daughter's anxiety. She was not interested in the
war, or in any other cause of the abyss she was facing. She strove to think
clearly what to do. But no, she must do her thinking alone. With a sudden
quiet she rose from the table, went around to her father's chair and kissed
him very gently.
"All right, dear--I see it all now--and I promise I'll try my best," she
said.
"You're a brave little woman," he replied.
But after she had gone, he reflected. Why had he called her a brave little
woman? Why had it all been so intense, the talk upon so heroic a plane? It
would be hard on Edith, of course; but others were doing it, weren't they?
Think of the women in Europe these days! After all, she'd be very
comfortable here, and perhaps by Christmas times would change.
He shook off these petty troubles and went to his office for the day.
* * * * *
As she busied herself unpacking the trunks, Edith strove to readjust her
plans. By noon her head was throbbing, but she took little notice of that.
She had a talk with Hannah, the devoted Irish girl who had been with her
ever since George was born.
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