"Oh, my back! That was suppled long ago, by a typewriter."
"Poor little Theresa," Mrs. Morton murmured, for the servants had left the room.
Theresa cracked a nut as though it had been the lady's head. She cast a hot glance at Morton, who was delicately peeling an apple. He looked softly at her. In his eyes there was the tenderness of a pity more understanding and deeper than his mother's: it was pity for all the laborious, independent women in a hard world.
The lift of Theresa's head was a signal that Mrs. Morton was growing to fear.
"You needn't be sorry for me. You're sorry and half ashamed. Why? Why? Why?" She held in her voice, and spoke with a breaking strain in it. "And I resent being pitied. Why, as soon as I knew anything, I was trying to decide what I should be when I grew up."
Mrs. Morton was propitiatory. "It was very sweet and brave of you, my dear."
"No, it was just as natural as eating. And if I were the wife of Croesus, my daughters should have professions."
She had a vision of those daughters: they were bright and eager, and they were her own, and for a moment the sight of them matured her impulsive and intolerant youth. She warmed to them: she felt a spreading as of wings, a softening of all her being, and her hands and lips were quieted and strong.
She laughed as water laughs, trickling through the moss. She smiled from one end of the table to the other. "I'm sorry I get so vehement," she said. "I can't help it. I hope I wasn't rude."
An apology from Theresa was almost more alarming than a scolding. "No, no, dear, I quite understand," Mrs. Morton said in haste, while Basil smiled slowly, a little stiffly, conquering uneasiness with love.