“You haven’t been in?”
“No: I just stood in the passage, and tried—”
“Tried—?”
“To think of something ... something to say to her without ... without her guessing....” A sob stopped her, but she pressed on with a final effort. “It’s no use. You were right: there’s nothing I can say. You’re her real mother. Go to her. It’s not your fault—or mine.”
“Oh—” Delia cried.
Charlotte clung to her in inarticulate abasement. “You said I was wicked—I’m not wicked. After all, she was mine when she was little!”
Delia put an arm about her shoulder.
“Hush, dear! We’ll go to her together.”
The other yielded automatically to her touch, and side by side the two women mounted the stairs, Charlotte timing her impetuous step to Delia’s stiffened movements. They walked down the passage to Tina’s door; but there Charlotte Lovell paused and shook her head.
“No—you,” she whispered, and turned away.