Bertie had heard this Scriptural parallel before, and was not in love with it.
“Oh, one has one’s hours for dreaming, of course,” she replied lightly, but with a distinct frigidity. “But with a husband and house, and those three children, I simply must put my shoulder to the wheel.”
“Yes, indeed. I always wish I had your sense of responsibility. I’m afraid I’m dreadfully apt to feel that my little songs are all the work I’m meant to do, having once given a son to the nation,” sighed Nina, who was aware that her friend had always regretted Hazel’s sex.
“How is Morris? Does he ever write?” was the subtle rejoinder of Mrs. Tregaskis, uttered in markedly sympathetic tones.
Morris Severing, aged seventeen, and his mother each frequently told their numerous friends in confidence that they did not understand one another. This was untrue—they only understood one another too well.
“My poor Morris!” sighed Nina. “He will see things so differently later on. Oh the blindness of youth, Bertie! It makes one’s heart ache sometimes. When I think of the stores of sad, sad, unavailing memories that my poor wayward, foolish boy is laying up for himself, when it is all too late!”
A certain complacency might have been detected in these heartrending glimpses into the future.
But Mrs. Tregaskis said consolingly: “He will learn, Nina. After all, he is so young—only a boy at Eton, for all his ridiculous airs.”
“He looks a man already. No one will ever believe I am the mother of that great tall creature—it’s simply too absurd. I always think that’s the penalty we poor fair-haired people have to pay.”
Nina Severing’s wavy hair was pale gold, barely flecked with grey, and her enormous eyes had up-curling golden lashes.