Magda was too much pre-occupied with her own line of thought to notice this, or to follow it out, as she might have done. How to bring in what she had to say she did not know; and the mental struggle kept her absent and dull. Bee waited on her, supplied her wants, and asked questions about things in general. Mrs. Major filled gaps with easy talk, never for a moment at a loss for something to say. She was evidently a well-read woman, and a clever one; much more so than Magda had been accustomed to consider Bee. She tried Magda on a variety of subjects, and had small response in any direction. For some time no loophole occurred for anything personal.
Tea was nearly over when Bee remarked—"I hope you will come in very often, Magda."
Magda seized upon the opening. "Yes—I should like it very much. Only, of course, when one is at home, there is a lot to do—and so many people to see—and—"
"We quite understand. I don't think you will find us at all unreasonable, dear."
Magda had an odd sense, of which she had never at school been conscious, that she was a good deal younger than Bee. The latter seemed, all at once, to have gained years in age. Not only was she older, but prettier, more dignified, more controlled in manner.
"But of course I do mean—" Magda came to a stop.
"No doubt you have a great many friends here, and perhaps not very much leisure," politely suggested Mrs. Major. It really seemed as if they were trying to help her out of her difficulty.
"And then, Magda, having Miss Vincent must make a great difference. You are always seeing her, are you not? And at first we shall not know all your friends, or they us."
The opportunity was not to be lost. Magda summoned up her courage. "I suppose—I suppose not," she said, with averted gaze. "People here are rather—are rather slow, you know—I mean, in calling on new-comers."
She looked up nervously to see the effect of her words, and intercepted one swift glance between mother and daughter. Not an unkind glance; not offended; but amused.