“Was there a lot of difficulty about it? Were they all very vexed?” asked Hazel sympathetically.
“Rather vexed. Cousin Bertie was very, very kind, of course—and Rosamund understood, and didn’t think I wanted to be separate or—or different or anything—you know what I mean, though I can’t explain it at all well. But, of course, they didn’t like it. Naturally.”
“Now why ‘naturally’? What had it got to do with anyone but yourself? If it makes you any happier, why on earth shouldn’t you be a Roman Catholic to-day and a Primitive Methodist to-morrow, if you want to? I’ve no patience with this never letting people run their own show,” declared Lady Marleswood.
“It was very difficult to know what to do,” rather solemnly said Frances.
“That’s so like you, Francie dearest. I shouldn’t have seen the least difficulty in it. Do whatever you want to do, and whatever you think best. Then you take your own risks and have nobody but yourself to blame if things go wrong. But I don’t believe they do go wrong. Look at me!”
Frances looked—at the radiant blooming face of little Dickie’s mother.
“I’ve never,” said Hazel earnestly, “never for one single minute, regretted that I took my own way, Frances. I’m happier than I’ve ever been in my life, and even if I lost Guy and the baby to-morrow, I should still think it had been worth while.”
Frances looked at her.
“You’ve not changed a bit, Hazel. I feel just as if you and Rosamund had been to some grown-up party and then you’d come into my room at Porthlew to tell me all about it.”
“I’m so glad,” cried Hazel delightedly. “I should hate it if you all thought I’d changed and become quite different just because I’m so happy. Francie, I do want Rosamund and you to be as happy as I am. It seems unfair that you shouldn’t be, when you’re both so much better than I am. Is Rosamund going to marry Morris Severing?”