V.
"If I were you," Mamma said, "I should put away that box of books. You'll be no use if you read—read—read all day long."
"You oughtn't to say that, Mamma. I am of use. You know I can make the sewing-machine go when you can't."
Mamma smiled. She knew it.
"And which would you rather took you over the crossing at the Bank? Me or
Papa?"
Mamma smiled again. She knew she was safer with Mary at a crossing, because Papa teased her and frightened her before he dragged her over. But Mary led her gently, holding back the noses of the horses.
"There's that Locke on the human understanding," said Mamma. "Poor Jimmy was frightened when he found you reading it."
"He wasn't. He was most awfully pleased and excited."
"He was laughing at you."
"He wasn't. He wasn't."
"Of course he was laughing at you. What did you think he was doing?"
"I thought he was interested."
"He wasn't, then. Men," Mamma said, "are not interested in little book-worms. He told me it was very bad for you."
Shame again. Hot, burning and scalding shame. He was only laughing at her.
"Mark doesn't laugh at me," she said. The thought of Mark and of his love for her healed her wound.
"A precious deal," Mamma said, "you know about Mark."
Mamma was safe. Oh, she was safe. She knew that Mark loved her best.