In this he was not mistaken. While they were there he was able to draw
from his own speeches, covert or open, the relief that comes to a man in
pain from moaning. Now that they were gone, however, the last extraneous
incident that could possibly stand between him and the beginning of the
end had passed. The moment he had foreseen, as one foresees death, was
on him; so, raising his head from the woodwork of the doorway, he braced
himself, and said, "Now!"
At almost the same instant he heard the rustle of his daughter's skirts
as she came from the drawing-room on her way up-stairs. She advanced
slowly down the broad hail, the lights striking iridescent rays from the
trimmings of her dress. The long train, adding to her height, enhanced
her gracefulness. Only that curious deadness of sensation of which he
had been aware all day--the inability to feel any more that comes from
too much suffering--enabled him to keep his ground before her. He did
keep it, advancing from the doorway two or three steps toward her, till
they met at the foot of the stairway.
"Have you enjoyed your evening?" were the words he found himself saying,
though they were far from those he had at heart.
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