He meditated, somewhat gloomily, as they drove, on the unexpectedness of the younger generation. He had never thought of Nancy as belonging, in any but the chronological sense, to that category; yet here she was, accepting, if not condoning, the rebellion against law and morality.
Mrs. Averil had driven down to the Little House where she was to be picked up and, as they turned the corner to the Green, they saw her waiting at the gate, her furs turned up around her ears, her neat little face pinched and dry, as he had known that he would find it, and showing a secure if controlled indignation, rather than Nancy’s sad perplexity.
“Well, Roger, you find us in a pleasant predicament,” she observed as Oldmeadow settled the rug around her knees. “Somehow one never thinks of things like this happening in one’s own family. Village girls misbehave and people in the next county run away sometimes with other people’s wives; but one never expects such adventures to come walking in to one’s own breakfast-table.”
“Disagreeable things do have a way of happening at breakfast-time, don’t they,” Oldmeadow assented. The comfort of Mrs. Averil was that even on her death-bed she would treat her own funeral lightly: “I wonder it remains such a comfortable meal, all the same.”
“I suppose you’ve had lunch on the train,” said Mrs. Averil. “Will you believe it? Poor Eleanor was worrying about that this morning. She’s got some coffee and sandwiches waiting for you, in case you haven’t. I’m so thankful you’ve come. It will help her. Poor dear. She’s begun to think of all the other things now. Of what people will say and how they will hear. Lady Cockerell is very much on her mind. You know what a meddlesome gossip she is, and only the other day Eleanor snubbed her when she was criticizing Barbara’s new school. The thought of her is disturbing her dreadfully now.”
“I suppose these leech-bites do help to alleviate the pain of the real wound,” said Oldmeadow.
“Not in the least. They envenom it,” Mrs. Averil replied. “I’d like to strangle Lady Cockerell myself before the news reaches her.”
Nancy drove on, her eyes fixed on the pony’s ears. “I don’t believe people will talk nearly as much as you and Aunt Eleanor imagine,” she now remarked. “I’ve told her so; and so must you, Mother.”
“You are admirable with her, Nancy. Far better than I am. I sit grimly swallowing my curses, or wringing my hands. Neither wringing nor cursing is much good, I suppose.”
“Not a bit of good. It’s better she should think of what people say than of Meg; but when it comes to agonizing over them I believe the truth is that people nowadays do get over it; far more than they used to; especially if Aunt Eleanor can show them that she gets over it.”