Bertha laughed a little.
“Well—one is, somehow. The generation that gives and the generation that takes. I suppose one took once upon a time, oneself, and this keeps the balance true.”
“And your Minnie followed you, so you’re not alone?”
“Oh no! Dear Minnie! She’s played ivy to my oak-tree for so long that it’s impossible to imagine her without a prop. I’m glad to have her, and then Rosamund need never feel in any least little way bound—I’m renting this tiny place from her, you know. It’s quite a business arrangement.”
“So much the best way to do things, though, as you know, dearest, I’m so dreadfully silly about practical things like rent and ground taxes and technical terms like that. So you can really feel it’s your own little domain?”
“For the time being. Anything else would have been rather an anomaly, don’t you think? Rosamund has a great attachment to the place—always wanted to come back here—and then it’s full of associations of her childhood and little Francie’s. I know exactly what she feels about it.”
Bertha’s softened expression of full understanding gave weight to the words.
“So Rosamund’s found herself,” said Mrs. Severing musingly.
“Yes, poor dear, through coming into contact with reality. Oh, Nina, one would give anything to teach them some other way—with less pain and fewer tears. But they won’t listen. Ah! si jeunesse savait!”
“Dear Bertie! I understand—and don’t think that I should ever think you egotistical and adding ‘si vieillesse pouvait!’” softly said Mrs. Severing, freely sacrificing her reluctance to display an indifferent French accent to the satisfaction of laying a delicate emphasis on the pronoun relating to her friend.