"Waddy," said Charlotte Tracy, peeping through the closed blinds, and recognizing his figure. "He has outstayed everybody."
"You are no longer afraid of him, I trust?" inquired Mrs. North.
"Certainly not," said the older lady with decision. After a moment she added, "She must always amuse herself, I suppose."
"She has the very best of safeguards."
"Now there you go, with your cold-blooded judgments, Laura! Dorothy has as deep feelings as anybody. I don't know where you get your knowledge of her; you are her step-mother, it is true; but I have been with her as constantly as you have for years."
"Quite so. May I ask how well you knew her father?"
"I don't care!" was Charlotte's reply. She left the room with majesty. The majesty lasted through the hall, and into her own chamber, as she reflected, "I have feelings. And Dorothy has feelings. But Laura is a stone!" At this moment she caught a glimpse of herself in the full-length mirror, and majesty collapsed. "Do I look like that? Do I? Stout, short-nosed?" And she sank down on a sofa overwhelmed. But presently a laugh broke through her discomfiture. "The very next crumpled little old man I see, I'll be nice to him! I'll ask who is his favorite poet, and I'll get him to quote—yes, even if it's Byron!" Mrs. Tracy's favorite author was Ibsen.
"You will do it if I wish, won't you, Alan?" said Dorothy the next day.
"Why, if you really wish it—if you think it best—" began Mackenzie.
"She doesn't in the least," interposed Mrs. North. "Don't indulge her so; you will spoil her."