That was the way to cheat the sardonic gathered fates: to be deaf and
blind to whatever, falsely, they seemed to offer; to get into bed heavy
with weariness and rise hurried and absorbed. Over men so preoccupied,
spent, Cytherea had no power. It was strange how her name had become
linked with all his deepest speculations; she was involved in concerns
remote from her apparent sphere and influence.
"Gracious, you're thinking a lot," Helena said.
"What are you thinking about?" Gregory added.
"A doll," he replied, turning to his daughter.
"For me," she declared.
"No, me," Gregory insisted.
Lee Randon shook his head. "Not you, in the least."
"Of course not," Helena supported him. "I should think it would make
you sick, father, hearing Gregory talk like that. It does me. Why
doesn't he ask for something that boys play with?"
"I don't want them, that's why," Gregory specified. "Perhaps I'd like
to have a typewriter."
"You're not very modest." It was Helena again.
"It's father, isn't it? It isn't you."
"Listen," Lee broke in, "I came up here to be with two good children;
but where are they?"
"I'm one." Helena, freeing herself definitely, closed her arms in a
sweet warmth about his neck. "I'm one, too," Gregory called urgently.
"No," his father pressed him back; "you must stay in bed. They are both
here, I can see."
He wondered if, everything else forgotten, his children could
constitute a sufficient engagement; but the sentimental picture, cast
across his thoughts, of himself being led by a child holding each of
his hands defeated it.
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