Page:The Painted Veil - Maugham - 1925.djvu/281

 “Oh, Kitty, I didn’t expect you till the later train.”

“I though you wouldn’t want the bother of coming to meet me so I didn’t wire the time I expected to arrive.”

He gave her his cheek to kiss in the manner she so well remembered.

“I was just having a look at the paper,” he said. “I haven’t read the paper for the last two days.”

She saw that he thought it needed some explanation if he occupied himself with the ordinary affairs of life.

“Of course,” she said. “You must be tired out. I’m afraid mother’s death has been a great shock to you.”

He was older and thinner than when she had last seen him. A little, lined, dried-up man, with a precise manner.

“The surgeon said there had never been any hope. She hadn’t been herself for more than a year, but she refused to see a doctor. The surgeon told me that she must have been in constant pain, he said it was a miracle that she had been able to endure it.”

“Did she never complain?”

“She said she wasn’t very well. But she never complained of pain.” He paused and looked at Kitty. “Are you very tired after your journey?”

“Not very.”

“Would you like to go up and see her?”

“Is she here?”

“Yes, she was brought here from the nursing home.”

“Yes, I’ll go now.”