At the first sound which indicated that her pen was fairly started, Frederick put down his newspaper and spoke.
“Well Bertha, as you have had your way in the matter of bringing these children home with you, I suppose we had better come to an understanding on the subject.”
He invariably called his wife Bertha.
“No, dear, not to-night,” said Mrs. Tregaskis with pseudo-firmness. “I have to deal with all these letters.”
Frederick, who knew his wife, remained silent.
In a moment she resumed with spirit:
“Besides, what is there to discuss? I wrote to you when poor Rose Grantham died and said that I wanted to take her children, and give them a home. The alternative was either a cheap school, or the raking up of some third-rate foreign relation who might have been paid to look after them. I told you that it seemed to be—how shall I put it?—plus fort que moi—the impulse simply to take and—and love them.”
“I do not like impulses,” said Frederick coldly, “but you do not often—I might almost say ever—act on impulse, Bertha.”
She laughed angrily. “I’m very glad to hear you say so, since I’m always trying to learn caution, but as a matter of fact you are utterly mistaken, as you very often are where I am concerned. I’ve been exceedingly impetuous all my life, and I haven’t outgrown it yet. Of course I know very well that only an impetuous woman would have suggested adopting two children like that—but, upon my word, I’d rather trust to my love of children and take my risks.”
She drew up her fine figure as she spoke.