'Yes. We aren't really at home to visitors,' said Winifred.
'You're not? Then I'm an intruder?'
For once he felt his conventional dress was out of place, he was an
outsider.
Gudrun was very quiet. She did not feel drawn to talk to him. At this
stage, silence was best--or mere light words. It was best to leave
serious things aside. So they talked gaily and lightly, till they heard
the man below lead out the horse, and call it to 'back-back!' into the
dog-cart that was to take Gudrun home. So she put on her things, and
shook hands with Gerald, without once meeting his eyes. And she was
gone.
The funeral was detestable. Afterwards, at the tea-table, the daughters
kept saying--'He was a good father to us--the best father in the
world'--or else--'We shan't easily find another man as good as father
was.'
Gerald acquiesced in all this. It was the right conventional attitude,
and, as far as the world went, he believed in the conventions. He took
it as a matter of course. But Winifred hated everything, and hid in the
studio, and cried her heart out, and wished Gudrun would come.
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