"He ought to give up that bathing in the Serpentine. At his age it's
monstrous. And surely any other girl will do just as well?"

"He seems to set store by reading to her specially."

Stephen shrugged his shoulders. It had happened to him on one
occasion to be present when Mr. Stone was declaiming some pages of his
manuscript. He had never forgotten the discomfort of the experience.
"That crazy stuff," as he had called it to Cecilia afterwards, had
remained on his mind, heavy and damp, like a cold linseed poultice. His
wife's father was a crank, and perhaps even a little more than a crank,
a wee bit "touched"--that she couldn't help, poor girl; but any allusion
to his cranky produce gave Stephen pain. Nor had he forgotten his
experience at dinner.

"He seems to have grown fond of her," murmured Cecilia.

"But it's absurd at his time of life!"

"Perhaps that makes him feel it more; people do miss things when they
are old!"

Stephen slid the drawer back into its socket. There was dry decision in
that gesture.

"Look here! Let's exercise a little common sense; it's been sacrificed
to sentiment all through this wretched business. One wants to be kind,
of course; but one's got to draw the line."