He was left with a strange sense of having found the child Rosamund again, and with an absolute conviction that, in spite of all her assertions as to Frances’ return to the world, she yet knew them to be vain.
Nevertheless, Rosamund clung passionately to those assertions, both then and on her return to Porthlew. They seemed in some strange, inadequate way, to protect her from Bertha’s regretful philosophy and resignation, and from Minnie’s bland assumptions and consolations.
“After all, we live and learn, and it takes all sorts to make a world. That’s why it’s such a queer one, I suppose. At least, it’s not the world, so much as the people in it.”
Thus Miss Blandflower, surpassing herself. And adding, with regretful shakings of the head:
“Poor dear little Frances! But I suppose it’s as it will be, you know.”
“Minnie, my dear woman, you’re a fool,” said Mrs. Tregaskis bluntly. “What on earth can you possibly mean by ‘it’s as it will be’? And if you do mean anything, of what consolation is it to this poor little mater dolorosa here?”
She laid her hand kindly on Rosamund’s shoulder.
Miss Blandflower had lived with Mrs. Tregaskis for a number of years, had a whole-hearted adoration for her, and was not at all sensitive. Neither was this the first time that her dear Mrs. Tregaskis, with playful candour, had called her a fool. She therefore smiled with great placidity, and said deprecatingly:
“Dear Mrs. Tregaskis! I always say you’re such a purist—always catching one up. I’m afraid I’m dreadfully slipshod in my way of speaking sometimes—but while there’s life there’s hope. You may yet cure me, in my old age.”
“I doubt it very much, Minnie,” said Bertha briskly, to which Miss Blandflower thoughtfully rejoined: