"Oh, how did you know? But is anybody?"
"Lots of people, I think. This—this may be my farewell sermon, Terry, so be attentive!"
"I won't listen if you talk like that."
"I won't, then, and I'm not going to preach. I only want to tell you to go on taking care of them all for me. You do it better than I ever did, and it has been a sacrifice."
Had it? Theresa looked back through the months. What would she have done with them if they had been hers to use? The thought of the immortal poem rose up in a cloud of dust. It would never be anything more than dust, offensive to eyes and nose, choking her. With a defiant movement of the arms she scattered it, yet still its odour remained, mocking her with its dry offence. She spurned the idea of herself as poet, her head was unaccountably humbled, yet through it there darted swiftly the vision of herself as novelist. It was a vision easier to live with, and she welcomed it, straightening her back.
"There's Grace," her mother was saying softly; "she is so pretty. Don't let her marry the wrong person, Terry."
"She's rather clever at dodging the mistakes. She has a lot of commonsense. I'm much more likely to do something insane, in spite of my looks! Being plain makes one so independent!"
"You're not plain, dear. Father thinks you're beautiful."
"Oh, Father!" The old allegiance and the new scorn were fairly mingled.
"Yes," said Nancy, twisting her lips, "it is rather like that, I know. And there's Uncle George. He's much nicer near than at a distance. Theresa, do you mind him very much?"