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 had regained the writing-table and could lift a composed face to his. He came in hurriedly, yet with a kind of reluctance beneath his haste: again it was his father's step. She smiled, but looked away from him as he approached her; she seemed to be re-living her own past as one re-lives things in the distortion of fever.

&quot;Are you off already?&quot; she asked, glancing at the hat in his hand.

&quot;Yes; I'm late as it is. I overslept myself.&quot; He paused and looked vaguely about the room. &quot;Don't expect me till late—don't wait dinner for me.&quot;

She stirred impulsively. &quot;Dick, you're overworking—you'll make yourself ill.&quot;

&quot;Nonsense. I'm as fit as ever this morning. Don't be imagining things.&quot;

He dropped his habitual kiss on her forehead, and turned to go. On the threshold he paused, and she felt that something in him sought her and then drew back.