"I am sorry for Ally. But I'm sorry for Papa, too. You're not."

"I'd be sorry for him right enough if he wasn't so sorry for himself."

"Gwenda, _you're_ awful."

"Because I won't waste my pity? Ally's got nothing--He's got
everything."

"Not what he cares most for."

"He cares most for what people think of him. Everybody thought him a
good kind husband. Everybody thinks him a good kind father."

* * * * *

The music suddenly ceased. A sound of voices came instead of it.

"There," said Gwenda. "He's gone in and stopped her."

He had, that time.

And in the sudden ceasing of the Pathetic Sonata the three sisters
heard the sound of wheels and the clank of horseshoes striking
together.

Mr. Greatorex was not yet dead of his pneumonia. The doctor had passed
the Vicarage gate.

And as he passed he had said to himself. "How execrably she plays."