“I wonder,” she said, “if you two would mind dining a little earlier than usual. I might sleep if I could get to bed early, and I must be at the hospital before eight.”
Mr. Lanley agreed a little more quickly than it was his habit to speak.
“O Mama, I think you’re so marvelous!” said Mathilde, and touched at her own words, she burst into tears. Her mother put her arm about her, and Mr. Lanley patted her shoulder—his sovereign care.
“There, there, my dear,” he murmured, “you must not cry. You know Vincent has a very good chance, a very good chance.”
The assumption that he hadn’t was just the one Mathilde did not want to appear to make. Her mother saw this and said gently:
“She’s overstrained, that’s all.”
The girl wiped her eyes.
“I’m ashamed, when you are so calm and wonderful.”
“I’m not wonderful,” said her mother. “I have no wish to cry. I’m beyond it. Other people’s trouble often makes us behave more emotionally than our own. If it were your Pete, I should be in tears.” She smiled, and looked across the girl’s head at Mr. Lanley. “She would like to see him, Papa. Telephone Pete Wayne, will you, and ask him to come and see her this evening? You’ll be here, won’t you?”
Mr. Lanley nodded without cordiality; he did not approve of encouraging the affair unnecessarily.