Morris poked the fire briskly, and carefully abstained from any inquiry into the subject of his mother’s wonder.
“If things had been otherwise,” Nina pursued with determination, “perhaps I might have sought that quiet, contemplative way myself. I have a great deal of the cloister element in me.”
Morris, not in the least amused, but distinctly irritated, by his parent’s pretensions to a temperament which he did not believe her to possess, assumed the appearance of one refraining from all but irrepressible mirth.
Nina compressed her lips, skilfully became several shades paler, and bade her son good-night in the low, self-controlled tones of one wounded to the quick.
The next day Mrs. Severing’s considerable dramatic abilities were again called into play by the necessity of explaining to Bertha Tregaskis her desertion of Frances.
“I knew you’d want news of your child, dearest,” she began fondly, “so I felt I had to come over and tell you all about everything at once.”
Mrs. Tregaskis did not appear to be in the least impressed by the smoothness of this address.
“What I don’t understand, darling,” she returned with great directness, “is why you are back here and Francie alone at this convent place. You distinctly said that you were staying for the whole week and making the Retreat too—otherwise, as you know, I should have sent Miss Blandflower with her.”
“Bertie dear,” said her friend with great earnestness, “let me speak quite frankly and openly to you—of course I know I may. Don’t you think it’s a pity you don’t trust your girls rather more? Take Francie now—she’s perfectly well looked after where she is, and perfectly discreet and sensible. Why insist on sending someone to watch every movement and report on it? Oh, I know you don’t mean it for watching—or anything of that sort—but that’s probably what it looks like to the child, and it galls her. I’ve felt it every moment of the time that I’ve been with her.”
“Do you mean to tell me, Nina...?”