‘Damn you, what’s the matter with you?’ he snapped in frustration. The mother was far more real to her than the father; the ghostly far more substantial than the living form. Too close, he reasoned, for safety. The light was poor, so that she saw their gleaming faces dimly and indistinctly. All that he had sown that afternoon with such infinite care was as nothing compared to this seed, cast without forethought. “Really, Sir John,” she said, “I don’t know how to thank you. It pained Lucy to see Mike eating so sparely. A buxom piece, who looked, Gerald decided, as if she would be more at home in an amorous engagement in a hayloft than sitting demurely in a ballroom.
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