Moved by this declaration, wondering that it did not warm her heart more,
she murmured a few endearing words while the uppermost thought in her
mind was that she must tell him now of the situation. She had expected
to be questioned anxiously about herself--and while she desired it she
shrank from the answers she would have to make. But her father seemed
strangely, unnaturally incurious. It looked as if there would be no
questions. Still this was an opening. This seemed to be the time for
her to begin. And she began. She began by saying that she had always
felt like that. There were two of them, to live for each other. And if
he only knew what she had gone through!
Ensconced in his corner, with his arms folded, he stared out of the cab
window at the street. How little he was changed after all. It was the
unmovable expression, the faded stare she used to see on the esplanade
whenever walking by his side hand in hand she raised her eyes to his
face--while she chattered, chattered. It was the same stiff, silent
figure which at a word from her would turn rigidly into a shop and buy
her anything it occurred to her that she would like to have. Flora de
Barral's voice faltered. He bent on her that well-remembered glance in
which she had never read anything as a child, except the consciousness of
her existence. And that was enough for a child who had never known
demonstrative affection. But she had lived a life so starved of all
feeling that this was no longer enough for her. What was the good of
telling him the story of all these miseries now past and gone, of all
those bewildering difficulties and humiliations? What she must tell him
was difficult enough to say. She approached it by remarking cheerfully:
"You haven't even asked me where I am taking you." He started like a
somnambulist awakened suddenly, and there was now some meaning in his
stare; a sort of alarmed speculation. He opened his mouth slowly. Flora
struck in with forced gaiety. "You would never, guess."
He waited, still more startled and suspicious. "Guess! Why don't you
tell me?"
He uncrossed his arms and leaned forward towards her. She got hold of
one of his hands. "You must know first . . . " She paused, made an
effort: "I am married, papa."
For a moment they kept perfectly still in that cab rolling on at a steady
jog-trot through a narrow city street full of bustle. Whatever she
expected she did not expect to feel his hand snatched away from her grasp
as if from a burn or a contamination. De Barral fresh from the stagnant
torment of the prison (where nothing happens) had not expected that sort
of news. It seemed to stick in his throat. In strangled low tones he
cried out, "You--married? You, Flora! When? Married! What for? Who
to? Married!"