“I wish to speak to your mother, Evelyn,” he said in an even voice.
Evelyn left the room, closing the door behind her. Stanhope resumed his seat at the table. His wife looked at him, then into her plate, her lips nervous.
“Only this,” he said. “You will let Evelyn go to see Miss Bromfield.” His voice was polite, gentle. “And I must again beg of you not to express before our children those—those ideas of disrespect for labour and respect for idleness which, as you know, are more offensive to me than any others of the falsehoods which it is my life work to fight.”
She was trembling with anger and fear. Yet in her sullen eyes there was cringing adoration. One sees the same look in the eyes of a dog that is being beaten by its master, as it shows its teeth yet dares not utter a whine of its rage and pain lest it offend further.
“You know we never do agree about social distinctions, Arthur,” she said, in a soothing tone.
“I know we agreed long ago not to discuss the matter,” he replied, kindly but wearily. “And I know that we agreed that our children were not to hear a suggestion that their father was teaching false views.”
“We can’t all be as broad as you are, Arthur.”
“If I were to speak what is on the tip of my tongue,” he said good-humouredly, “we should re-open the sealed subject. I must go. They are waiting for me.”
That afternoon Mrs. Stanhope wrote asking Theresa to go with Evelyn to Miss Bromfield’s. And on Saturday Evelyn went, taking her mother’s card.