“You look rather tired, old lady,” she said kindly. Rosamund felt suddenly grateful for the kindness of her voice and said:
“A little, Cousin Bertie.”
“A real deep draught of music always gives me a fresh lease of life,” remarked Mrs. Tregaskis, drawing a deep breath that expanded her broad chest yet more. “Not that we heard very much to-night, but the violin was good, of course. Funny that music doesn’t mean more to you two children, Rosamund. Your mother was wonderful. But still, I hope you and Frances enjoyed this evening.”
“Oh yes,” said Rosamund colourlessly.
Her guardian looked rather dissatisfied.
“Why so down in the mouth, eh?” she asked genially.
Mrs. Tregaskis was always very quick to detect an atmosphere.
Rosamund hesitated.
She partly shared Frances’ old childish feeling that Mrs. Tregaskis must always get just that answer which she expected to get, to her kindly, peremptory questionings, and she was partly actuated by an intense, miserable need of reassurance that made her turn even to a source which she felt to be unlikely.
“I’m feeling rather worried about Frances,” she said rather nervously, knowing that it was not a propitious beginning. Her tendency to torment herself and the whole household on the subject of imaginary anxieties about Frances’ health or spirits had been genially but quite implacably combated by Mrs. Tregaskis ever since their first arrival at Porthlew.