had been more with them both. She had dim recollections of her father
playing with her, pretending to be a bear and growling at her from behind
the sofa. And then he would seize and hug her and they would both laugh,
while he tossed her into the air and caught her. He had looked so big
and handsome. All through her childhood there had been the desire to
recreate those days, to spring into the air and catch her arms about his
neck. She could have loved him dearly if he had only let her. Once,
seeking explanation, she had opened her heart a little to Mrs. Munday. It
was disappointment, Mrs. Munday thought, that she had not been a boy; and
with that Joan had to content herself. Maybe also her mother's illness
had helped to sadden him. Or perhaps it was mere temperament, as she
argued to herself later, for which they were both responsible. Those
little tricks of coaxing, of tenderness, of wilfulness, by means of which
other girls wriggled their way so successfully into a warm nest of cosy
affection: she had never been able to employ them. Beneath her
self-confidence was a shyness, an immovable reserve that had always
prevented her from expressing her emotions. She had inherited it,
doubtless enough, from him. Perhaps one day, between them, they would
break down the barrier, the strength of which seemed to lie in its very
flimsiness, its impalpability.

And then during college vacations, returning home with growing notions
and views of her own, she had found herself so often in antagonism with
him. His fierce puritanism, so opposed to all her enthusiasms. Arguing
with him, she might almost have been listening to one of his Cromwellian
ancestors risen from the dead. There had been disputes between him and
his work-people, and Joan had taken the side of the men. He had not been
angry with her, but coldly contemptuous. And yet, in spite of it all, if
he had only made a sign! She wanted to fling herself crying into his
arms and shake him--make him listen to her wisdom, sitting on his knee