When she and her father walked, or sat, or went to concerts together, their talk was neither particularly intimate nor particularly voluble; they made to each other no great confidences.

Yet each was certain that the other was not bored--a great thing; and they squeezed each other's little fingers a good deal--very warming.

Now with his son Alan, Felix had a continual sensation of having to keep up to a mark and never succeeding--a feeling, as in his favorite nightmare, of trying to pass an examination for which he had neglected to prepare; of having to preserve, in fact, form proper to the father of Alan Freeland.

With Nedda he had a sense of refreshment; the delight one has on a spring day, watching a clear stream, a bank of flowers, birds flying.

And Nedda with her father--what feeling had she?
To be with him was like a long stroking with a touch of tickle in it; to read his books, a long tickle with a nice touch of stroking now and then when one was not expecting it.
That night after dinner, when Alan had gone out and Flora into a dream, she snuggled up alongside her father, got hold of his little finger, and whispered: "Come into the garden, Dad; I'll put on goloshes.