apparent cheerfulness.

Complaining of a headache, Irene retired, soon after tea, to her
room, and did not come down again during the evening.

The next day was Christmas. It rose clear and mild as a day in
October. When Irene came down to breakfast, her pale, almost
haggard, face showed too plainly that she had passed a night of
sleeplessness and suffering. She said, "A merry Christmas," to her
father, on meeting him, but there was no heart in the words. It was
almost impossible to disguise the pain that almost stifled
respiration. Neither of them did more than make a feint at eating.
As Mr. Delancy arose from the table, he said to Irene--

"I would like to see you in the library, my daughter."

She followed him passively, closing the door behind her as she
entered.

"Sit down. There." And Mr. Delancy placed a chair for her, a little
way from the grate.

Irene dropped into the chair like one who moved by another's
volition.

"Now, daughter," said Mr. Delancy, taking a chair, and drawing it in
front of the one in which she was seated, "I am going to ask a plain
question, and I want a direct answer."

Irene rallied herself on the instant.