Merryl said no more. She stood still looking at Magda. Then she dragged herself slowly from the room.
That was not like her. Ordinarily she was all sunshine, all readiness to do whatever anybody wished. Though not observant, Magda felt a little uncomfortable. It occurred to her that the child might for once be tired, and that she certainly ought to offer to go in her stead.
Instead of responding instantly to this inward suggestion, she sat still and debated with herself. Should she? Was it needful? It would be such a bother! She had made up her mind to do a certain amount that morning, and she hated having to change her plans. Besides, she felt cross and dissatisfied—unhappy, she called it to herself—and disinclined for a long hot bicycle ride in the sun. Such a dull straight road. And all the other way in the afternoon! She liked the idea quite as little as Merryl. Why should she have to do it, and not Merryl? Nothing ever hurt Merryl. And she couldn't put off going to Claughton. That must come first—sun or no sun, Merryl or no Merryl.
The translation was at a standstill. Magda leant back in her chair, lost in thought.
There was more than one trouble weighing on her mind.
Rob had written only a single short letter all the time he had been in Switzerland. True, he had sent a shower of picture-postcards; but what are picture-postcards when one wants a long delightful outpour? And since his return only one plain postcard! She felt deeply injured.
Worse still, she had written five long letters to the adored Patricia during her absence on the Continent; and only one scribbled note had come in response, with a list of places visited. She had poured out her soul for Patricia's benefit; giving the best gold that she had; and it brought in exchange a few coppers.
Nor was this all. Three days earlier, hearing casually that Patricia was expected, she had bicycled over beforehand, to leave flowers and an enthusiastic note of welcome, imploring to know how soon she might see her idol. No reply, no word of thanks, had yet arrived. It might be that Patricia's return had been delayed. She could not pass another night not knowing.
In addition to these worries was another, yet heavier. The Majors had arrived, and had taken possession of Virginia Villa. She had seen vans with luggage before the door ten days earlier; and by reference to Bee's last unanswered letter, she knew that Bee herself must now be there.
Action could no longer be put off. She would have to tell her mother and Penrose. She would have to ask them to call. She would have to explain somehow why she had kept silence so long. How she now wished that she had been brave and sensible, and had spoken earlier! It seemed so silly, so absurd, not to have done it—and so unkind to Bee. "Mean!" whispered a small accusing voice in her heart.