"I don't suppose I've seen anything that matters," she said.
"You've seen what my life is here. You can't have helped seeing that
Fanny and I don't hit it off very well together."
"Fanny's an angel."
"You dear little loyal thing.... Yes, she's an angel. Too much of an
angel for a mere man. I made my grand mistake, Barbara, when I married
her."
"She doesn't think so, anyhow."
"I'm not so sure. Fanny knows she's got hold of something that's
too--too big for her. What's wrong with Fanny is that she can't grasp
things. She's afraid of them. And she can't take serious things
seriously. It's no use expecting her to. I've left off expecting."
"You don't understand Fanny one bit."
"My dear child, I've been married to her more than seventeen years, and
I'm not a fool. You've seen for yourself how she takes things. How she
belittles everything with her everlasting laugh, laugh, laugh. In time
it gets on your nerves."
"It would," said Barbara, "if you don't see the fun of it."
"You can't expect me to see the fun of my own funeral."
"Funeral? Is it as bad as all that?"
"It has been as bad as all that--Barbara."
He brooded.
"And then you came, with your sweetness. And your little serious face--"
"_Is_ my face serious?"
"Very. To me. Other people may think you frivolous and amusing. I
daresay you are amusing--to them."
"I hope so."
"You hope so because you want to hide your real self from them. But you
can't hide it from me. I've seen it all the time, Barbara."
"Are you sure?"
"Quite, quite sure."
"I wish I knew what it looked like."
"That's the beauty and charm of you, my dear, that you don't know."
"What a nice waistcoat you've got on," said Barbara.
He looked gratified. "I'm glad you like it I put it on for your
birthday."
"You mean," she said, "my adoption day."
He winced.
"It _is_ good," she said, "of you and Fanny to adopt me. But it won't be
for very long. And I want to earn my own living all the same."
"I can't think of letting you do that."
"I must. It won't make any difference to my adoption."
He scowled. So repugnant to him was this subject that he judged it
would be equally distasteful to Barbara.
"It was Fanny's idea," he said.
"I thought it would be."
"You didn't expect me to have paternal feelings for you, Barbara?"
"I didn't _expect_ you to have any feelings at all."
The wound made him start. "My poor child, what a terrible thing for you
to say."
"Why terrible?"
"Because it shows--it shows--And it isn't true. Do you suppose I don't
know what's been going on inside you? I was blind to myself, my dear,
but I saw through you."
"Saw through me?" She thought again of Ralph.
"Through and through."
"I didn't know I was so transparent. But I don't see that it matters
much if you did."
He smiled at her delicious naivete.
"No. Nothing matters. Nothing matters, Barbara, except our caring. At
least we're wise enough to know that."
"I shouldn't have thought," she said, "it would take much wisdom."
"More than you think, my child; more than you think. You've only got to
be wise for yourself. I've got to be wise for both of us."