He turns away full of patient scorn, enduring and unhoping bitterness—and “aiggs” are brought him. Fox eats them with relish; toast, too, three brown slices, buttered; and drinks two cups of strong hot coffee.
Just at half-past eight something entered the dining-room as swift and soundless as a ray of light. It was a child of fourteen years, a creature of surpassing loveliness, the fourth daughter of the Fox, named Ruth. It was the Fox in miniature: a little creature, graceful as a bird, framed finely as some small and perfect animal. The small, lean head was shaped and set exactly as the head of Fox, the dark blonde hair grew cleanly to it, the child’s face was of an ivory transparency, the features and the sensitivity of expression were identical with those of Fox, transformed to femininity, and the lines of the whole face were cut and moulded with the exquisite delicacy of a cameo.
The shyness of this little girl was agonising; it was akin to terror. She entered the room breathlessly, noiselessly, stricken, with her head lowered, her arms held to her side, her eyes fixed on the floor. The ordeal of passing by her father, and of speaking to him, was obviously a desperate one; she glided past as if she almost hoped to escape notice. Without raising her eyes, she said: “Good morning, daddy,” in a timid little voice, and was about to duck into her chair, when Fox looked up startled, got up quickly, put his arms round her, and kissed her. In answer to his kiss, she pecked her cheek towards him like a bird, still keeping her eyes desperately on the floor.
The face of Fox was illuminated by a radiant tenderness as, in a low, deaf, slightly hoarse tone, he said:
“Good morning, darling.”
Still without looking at him, stricken, desperate, she tried to get away from him, yet, even in the act, her affection for the Fox was eloquent. Her heart was beating like a trip-hammer, her eyes went back and forth like a frightened fledgling’s, she wanted to vanish through the walls, dart out of doors, turn into a shadow—anything, anything, if only she could utterly escape notice, having no one look at her, pay any attention to her, above all, speak to her. So she fluttered there in his embrace like a dove caught in a snare, tried to get away from him, was in a state of agony so acute and sensitive that it was painful to watch her or to do anything that would in any way increase the embarrassment and desperate shyness of this stricken little girl.
Fox’s embrace tightened round her as she tried to escape, and he grew full of solicitude and anxiety as he looked at her.
“Darling!” he whispered, in a low and troubled tone. He shook her gently. “What, darling?” he demanded. “Now what?” he finally demanded, with a touch of the old scorn.
“But nothing, daddy!” she protested, her timid little voice rising in a note of desperate protest. “Nothing, daddy!” She squirmed a little to get free. Reluctantly Fox let her go. The child ducked right down into her chair, still with her eyes averted, and concluded with a little gasping laugh of protest: “You’re so funny, daddy!”
Fox resumed his seat and still continued to regard her sternly, gravely, with alarmed solicitude, and a little scorn. She shot a frightened look at him and ducked her head down towards her plate.
“Is anything wrong?” said Fox, in a low voice.
“But naturally—not!“—a protesting and exasperated little gasp of laughter. “Why should anything be wrong? Honestly, you’re so strange, daddy!”
“Well, then,” said Fox, with patient resignation.
“But nothing! I keep telling you, there’s nothing! That’s what I’ve told you from the feerst!”
All of the children of the Fox say “feerst” for “first”, “beerst” for “burst”, “theerst” for “thirst”. Why, no one knows. It seems to be a tribal accent, not only among all of Fox’s children, but among all of their young cousins on the Fox’s side. It is almost as if they were creatures of some isolated family, immured for generations on some lonely island, cut off from the world, and speaking some lost accent that their ancestors spoke three hundred years ago. Moreover, their tone is characterised by a kind of drawl—not the languorous drawl of the deep South, but a protesting drawl, a wearied-out, exasperated drawl, as if they have almost given up hope of making Fox—or someone—understand what ought to be obvious without any explanation whatsoever. Thus:
“But nothing, daddy! I’ve told you that from the f-e-e-r-s-t!”
“Well, then, what is it, darling?” Fox demanded. “Why do you look like that?”—with an emphatic downward movement of the head.
“But look like what?” the child protested. “Oh, daddy, honestly”—she gasped, with a little strained laugh, and looked away—“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Portia brought smoking oatmeal and put it down before her, and the girl, saying timidly: “Good morning, Portia,” ducked her head and began to eat hastily.
Fox continued to look at the child sternly, gravely, with a troubled expression in his eyes. Looking up suddenly, she put down her spoon, and cried: