Annis kept close to her mother. After dinner she followed her to her dressing room.
"I suppose, mamma, I couldn't go with you?" she asked wistfully, as her mother was making great puffs out of her abundant hair.
"My dear—there will be all grown people, and nothing to interest a little girl," was the soft reply.
"But I don't mind interest. I could sit very still and watch the rest of you. I—" The child's voice faltered.
Her mother bent over and kissed her, endangering the structure of hair she was piling up.
"Oh, my dear, to-morrow perhaps we will go home and you will have me altogether. It will be only a little while. You see, people do not ask little girls out to tea."
"But you always took me before. Oh, mamma, I can't like all these people, there are too many of them! I do not want anyone but you."
The child clung convulsively to her mother. Patricia Mason's heart was torn between the two loves. For each day she was learning to love her generous, large-hearted husband with a deeper affection, and taking a warmer interest in the children. The hurt and jealous feeling of Annis was very natural; she could hardly blame her little daughter. Indeed, it would have pained her sorely if the child had been easily won away. Yet scenes like this smote the very depths of her soul. As Annis grew older she would understand that nothing could change a mother's love, though circumstances might appear to divide it.
Patricia kissed her tenderly, unclasped her arms, and went on with her preparations. The slow tears coursed each other down the soft cheek in the grave quiet harder to bear than sobs.
"Patty! Patty!" called the good-humored voice up the stairs, "don't prink all the afternoon, or you will outshine your old husband and put him out of temper. Girls, come! The horses are tired of waiting."