did not
relax. Such duplicity passed Edwin's comprehension; it seemed to him
purposeless. Yet he could not quite deny that there might be a certain
sting, a certain insinuation, in his auntie's last remark.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

THREE.

Then Mr Clayhanger entered, blowing forth a long breath as if trying to
repulse the oppressive heat of the July afternoon. He came straight to
the table, with a slightly preoccupied air, quickly, his arms motionless
at his sides, and slanting a little outwards. Mr Clayhanger always
walked like this, with motionless arms so that in spite of a rather
clumsy and heavy step, the upper part of him appeared to glide along.
He shook hands genially with Auntie Clara, greeting her almost as
grandiosely as she greeted him, putting on for a moment the grand
manner, not without dignity. Each admired the other. Each often said
that the other was `wonderful.' Each undoubtedly flattered the other,
made a fuss of the other. Mr Clayhanger's admiration was the greater.
The bitterest thing that Edwin had ever heard Maggie say was: "It's
something to be thankful for that she's his deceased wife's sister!"
And she had said the bitter thing with such quiet bitterness! Edwin had
not instantly perceived the point of it.

Darius Clayhanger then sat down, with a thud, snatched at the cup of tea
which Maggie had placed before him, and drank half of it with a
considerable in-drawing noise. No one asked where or why he had been
detained; it was not etiquette to do so. If father had been `called
away,' or had `had to go away,' or was `kept somewhere,' the details
were out of deference allowed to remain in mystery, respected by
curiosity ... `Father-business.' ... All business was sacred. He
himself had inculcated this attitude.

In a short silence the sound of the bell that the carman rang before the
tram started for Hanbridge floated in through the open window.

"There's the tram!" observed Auntie Clara, apparently with warm and
special interest in the phenomena of the tram. Then another little
silence.

"Auntie," said Clara, writhing about youthfully on her chair.

"Can't ye sit still a bit?" the father asked, interrupting her roughly,
but with good humour. "Ye'll be falling off th' chair in a minute."

Clara blushed swiftly, and stopped.

"Yes, love?" Auntie Clara encouraged her. It was as if Auntie Clara
had said: "Your dear father