Penelope didn’t seem to think that fact of any importance.
“Poor little Jacqueline is too young to know how to handle such an awkward situation,” she went on. “She’s Gildersleeve through and through, Mother. Loyal and affectionate. You should have heard her stand up for the horrid little pushing creature, because she thought her a friend. I must find some way myself to put a stop to such intrusions. I wonder if I’d better speak to the Conway woman? She seems very sensible.”
“Martha Conway is the salt of the earth,” said Aunt Eunice, with conviction. “You ought to know, Penelope. You went to public school with her once upon a time. After all, why shouldn’t this child come play with Jacqueline?”
Penelope spoke loftily, as she occasionally did speak to her mother.
“Now, Mother dearest, just for the sake of your democratic theories we can’t let Jack’s daughter associate with every common child that pushes itself forward. Blood will tell, you know.”
“Yes,” said Aunt Eunice, with mild persistence, “but what’s wrong with the Conway blood, Penelope? Conways and Gildersleeves and Holdens and Taits and Trowbridges, they all came here together in the old days—God-fearing farmer-folk, the lot of them, and not much to choose among them, though some have prospered lately more than others.”
Penelope became indulgent. There wasn’t much else for her to do, if she was to retire gracefully from the argument.
“You’re a darling old radical, Mother,” she said. “It’s fortunate that I am here to protect Jacqueline.”
Aunt Eunice sighed. She frequently did sigh at the end of one of her conversations with Penelope that never seemed to get them anywhere. She rose to her feet and gathered up her thin scarf of silk.
“I think I’ll go up to my room,” she said. “I’ve a telephone call to send.”