Miss Spicer was astonished; she had been speaking of young Lambert, and found this burst of feeling incomprehensible.
“How I’m sure you are mistaken,” she said. “Men don’t care a bit about their mother’s beauty, and can’t, in reason, expect them to be young. I’m sure Ivon loves you a great deal better than most sons love their own parents. So do think of it, and give him a good talking to; for one thing is certain, I’m not going to take up with a shop-girl’s leavings.”
In a confused, weary way, Mrs. Lambert comprehended that the girl was speaking of her own affairs, and had no idea of the anguish which had made her so reckless of exposure. She seldom lost her proud self-possession so thoroughly, and made a strong effort to recover herself before that sharp girl could observe how disproportioned her agitation was to the ostensible subject in question.
“Excuse me, Lucy, my head is aching fearfully.”
“Poor dear! I know how to pity you; only mine is the heart, which your cruel son is just breaking,” answered Miss Spicer, pressing both hands to her right side, just where the organ she spoke of was not, and shaking her head woefully.
This attempt at the sentimental did more toward restoring Mrs. Lambert’s composure than any amount of reasoning could have done. A keen sense of ridicule broke up the tumult of feeling that had almost prostrated her, and, spite of it all, she smiled.
“How am I expected to help you, Lucy?” she said, with something of her usual sweet manner.
“Why, Mrs. Lambert, I have just been telling you.”
“But that was while my head ached so badly.”
“Well, if people won’t listen, it’s of no use to ask advice; but, if I must say it all over again, I want you, in short, to give that son of yours a good, hard scolding.”