She took to speaking to her husband and daughter in the third person as if they were someone other than those she was speaking to. She would say to Smith, "Willy had better finish his coffee; it's almost nine o'clock, and he wouldn't want to be late for class." Or she said to her daughter: "Doris really practices the piano too little. At least an hour every day, it should be two. What will become of the talent? What a pity."
What this retreat meant for Doris Smith did not know; for in her own way she had become as distant and withdrawn as her mother. She had made it a habit to remain silent; and though she reserved a shy, gentle smile for her father, she did not speak to him. During the summer of his illness, when she could do it unnoticed, she had slipped into his little room and sat bes
