"Come along, Miss Nancy, do. What are you hanging about there for?"

"Nothing."

"You'll be disturbing your mother."

"Just a minute."

She peered anxiously, her little head almost held by the railings of the
banisters; she gazed down into black, mysterious depths wherein her
father might be hidden. She was driven to all this partly by some real
affection that had hitherto found no outlet, partly by a desire for
adventure, but partly, also, by some force that was behind her and quite
recognised by her. It was as though she said: "If I'm nice to my father
and make friends with him, then you must promise that I shan't be
frightened in the middle of the night, that the clock won't tick too
loudly, that the blind won't flap, that it won't all be too dark and
dreadful." She knew that she had made this compact.

Then she had several little encounters with her father. She met him one
day on the doorstep. He had come up whilst she was standing there.

"Had a good walk?" he said nervously. She looked at him and laughed.
Then he went hurriedly indoors.

On the second occasion she had come down to be shown off at a luncheon
party. She had been praised and petted, and then, in the hall, had run
into her father's arms. He was in his top-hat, going down to his old
city, looking, the nurse thought, "just like a monkey." But Nancy
stayed, holding on to the leg of his trousers. Suddenly he bent down and