“They are just the same at any time of year, dear,” sweetly returned Nina. “Geoffrey and I went there for a fortnight once—it seems oh so long ago! It somehow made one think of those far-away days when everything was couleur de rose——”
There were few topics that Bertha enjoyed less than the retrospective couleur de rose of her friend’s married life, and she hastily dragged the conversation back into the living present.
“I’m so very glad about Morris. Give the boy my love when you write. I wish Rosamund was half as sensible as he is. She goes mooning about the place as though she’d lost her dearest friend.”
Bertha gave a slightly apologetic laugh at her own acerbity, and Nina, whose regard for Rosamund always waxed in proportion as her friend’s waned, murmured with the air of a compassionate angel:
“Poor child! One remembers the heartaches of one’s own youth. The thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts, Bertie!”
“Well, Morris appears to have curtailed his successfully enough, at all events,” crisply returned Bertha. “I always said there was stuff in the boy, Nina, although you’ve spoilt him so outrageously.”
Nina laughed, and kissed Mrs. Tregaskis affectionately as they said good-bye.
It always pleased her to be told that she spoilt Morris. She had consistently over-indulged him as a little boy, and did so still in all matters where his personal pleasures were concerned, provided that they did not interfere with her wishes. The accusation of spoiling seemed to add colour to her frequently-voiced conviction that youth was very hard, and that a mother’s sacrifices often went unheeded.
“I’m afraid I have spoilt him,” she sighed in response to Bertha’s words. “But after all, Morris has been my only thought for so many, many years....”
Bertha told herself that really poor Nina was sometimes positively maudlin, and firmly created a diversion by demanding the loan of Nina’s seldom-used garden scissors.