"That I'm hers as much as yours. That she represents papa."
His gaze struck away through the open window and up to the sky; she
could hear him rattle in his trousers-pockets his money or his keys.
"Yes--that's what she keeps saying." It gave him for a moment an air
that was almost helpless.
"You say you don't care about her," Maisie went on. "DO you mean you've
quarrelled?"
"We do nothing in life but quarrel."
He rose before her, as he said this, so soft and fair, so rich, in spite
of what might worry him, in restored familiarities, that it gave a
bright blur to the meaning--to what would otherwise perhaps have been
the palpable promise--of the words.
"Oh YOUR quarrels!" she exclaimed with discouragement.
"I assure you hers are quite fearful!"
"I don't speak of hers. I speak of yours."
"Ah don't do it till I've had my coffee! You're growing up clever," he
added. Then he said: "I suppose you've breakfasted?"
"Oh no--I've had nothing."
"Nothing in your room?"--he was all compunction. "My dear old
man!--we'll breakfast then together." He had one of his happy thoughts.
"I say--we'll go out."
"That was just what I hoped. I've brought my hat."
"You ARE clever! We'll go to a café." Maisie was already at the door; he
glanced round the room. "A moment--my stick." But there appeared to be
no stick. "No matter; I left it--oh!" He remembered with an odd drop and
came out.
"You left it in London?" she asked as they went downstairs.
"Yes--in London: fancy!"
"You were in such a hurry to come," Maisie explained.