Page:The Painted Veil - Maugham - 1925.djvu/288

 “I’m used to strange places. London means nothing to me any more. I couldn’t breathe here.”

He closed his eyes for a moment and she thought he was going to cry. His face bore an expression of utter misery. It wrung her heart. She had been right; the death of his wife had filled him with relief and now this chance to break entirely with the past had offered him freedom. He had seen a new life spread before him and at last after all these years rest and the mirage of happiness. She saw dimly all the suffering that had preyed on his heart for thirty years. At last he opened his eyes. He could not prevent the sigh that escaped him.

“Of course if you wish to come I shall be very pleased.”

It was pitiful. The struggle had been short and he had surrendered to his sense of duty. With those few words he abandoned all his hopes. She rose from her chair and going over to him knelt down and seized his hands.

“No, father, I won’t come unless you want me. You’ve sacrificed yourself enough. If you want to go alone, go. Don’t think of me for a minute.”

He released one of his hands and stroked her pretty hair.

“Of course I want you, my dear. After all I’m your father and you’re a widow and alone. If you want to be with me it would be very unkind of me not to want you.”

“But that’s just it, I make no claims on you because I’m your daughter, you owe me nothing.”

“Oh, my dear child.”