“Foolish indeed!” sighed Nina. “But the young like to fancy that the elder generation does not understand—little knowing that one has been through all, all, everything, that can come within their ken a hundred times over. And so my poor Morris has preferred to bestow his confidence elsewhere—and oh! how he will regret it some day.”
“As to that,” said Bertha negligently, “it’s really only a little natural kicking against the pricks of parental authority, you know. Morris used to talk to me freely enough—we had some huge pow-wows together over that silly affair about Rosamund. Boys have a knack of confiding in me. I always say that I have more young men in my train than any girl I know!”
“Not more than Hazel,” cried Nina delicately. “I hear that everyone absolutely raves about her, and she’s looking too lovely for words. Do tell me, dearest, how, how is the adorable grandson?”
If Mrs. Severing sought to repay her friend for various previous thrusts by thus alluding to the latest scion of the house of Marleswood, whose grandparents had not yet been privileged to behold him, disappointment was in store for her. Bertha did indeed reply briefly enough, “Oh, the infant flourishes magnificently, I believe,” but she added immediately, in tones that strove to be casual and not triumphant:
“Hazel is bringing him down to us next month. Her husband has to go to Holland about some property or other, and she’s coming to us while he’s away.”
“Dearest, how glad I am!”
“It will be a great joy to my old man,” said Bertha rather wistfully. “The other two girls don’t fill Hazel’s place in any way. Of course, they’re not one’s own, either, but I do sometimes wish they had a little more of Hazel’s sunshine. She was like a ray of sunshine in the house—it describes her exactly, somehow. Never out of spirits, and never had a day’s illness in her life.”
“Oh, how I envy her!” sighed Nina.
Bertie disregarded this gentle attempt to conduct the conversation into channels more interesting to Mrs. Severing.
“The house hasn’t been the same place without her laughter and fun. Poor old Minnie is always more or less in the doleful dumps, and the two girls can’t see a joke to save their lives—never could. Frances will be worse than ever now, I suppose. Tell me about this convent of hers, Nina, and what she’s doing there? You were hardly there long enough to find out, I suppose?”