“How sweet you look!... I must dress. You advise me to do nothing? She didn’t want Peter at dinner. So—I’ll take him.”
That little rest between the “so” and the “I’ll” was an excellent instance of the way mother and daughter had of conveying to each other those things impossible of speech—the things that sound vulgar or shocking or basely contriving if put into words. And in no respect does the difference between the well bred and the common display itself so signally as in these small-large matters of what to say and what to imply. By this significance of silences mother and daughter were in the position—the happy position—of being able most sincerely and most virtuously, to deny even to themselves any and all intent of subtle or snobbish or intriguing thought. To impute such thoughts to such people is to excite their just indignation. As Allie departed to dress, her mother sent after her a glance of admiring love. She had brought her daughter up not as daughter, but as bosom friend, and she was reaping the rich reward; for Allie Kinnear, caring so little about everyone else that at bottom she neither strongly liked nor strongly disliked anybody, reserved and poured upon her mother all the love of her heart.
When the five women at the dinner were in the drawing-room afterwards waiting for the men, Mrs. Kinnear found an opportunity to say to Allie: “Richmond telephoned just before I came down. He is delighted that Beatrice is with us—wants us to keep her until he comes.”
“She says she won’t see him,” said Alicia.
“I think I can persuade her.”
Mrs. Kinnear was right. When Richmond called the following afternoon and Beatrice reiterated her refusal, Mrs. Kinnear said in her inimitable way, sweet, sensible, friendly: “My dear, don’t you see that you are putting yourself in the wrong?”
“Why quarrel with him?” objected Beatrice. “Why stupidly repeat again and again that I will not marry Peter? My mind is made up. I shall not change, and he knows it.”
Mrs. Kinnear had already debated—without letting herself know what she was about—whether or not to do all in her power to maintain the strained relations of father and daughter, “and help save poor Beatrice from the misery of marriage with a man she hates—a man who deserves a good wife.” She had decided against siding with the girl because of the dangers in incurring the relentless wrath of powerful Richmond. So, her reply now was: “Dear Beatrice, you needn’t be afraid of your father.”
She had calculated well. Beatrice reared proudly. “Perhaps it does look as if I were afraid to face him,” said she, all unconscious that Mrs. Kinnear was bending her to her will as easily as a basket maker bends an osier withe. “Yes—I’ll go down.”
And down she swept, to pause in statuelike coldness upon the threshold of the drawing-room, where her small, wiry father was pacing agitatedly. “Well, father?” said she.