Although she had only seen him twice, Caroline had been instantly impressed with the restraint, even the coldness of Haverford's manner.
To her he seemed to be the very last man in the world who would be able to assimilate himself with Camilla's effervescent nature. Surely her fanciful inconsequence, her pretty conceits, her irresponsible ways, would never wed with his seriousness and restraint, his peculiar gravity?
That spell of definite heart anguish, witnessed and shared by herself, charged all memory now of the children's mother with pathos. She could not help associating it with what had occurred.
Knowing nothing definitely, Caroline yet knew enough to assure herself that the engagement had been forced into existence by that very mental maelstrom of only a few hours before. And already she felt she understood Camilla well enough to be sure that this act, born of expediency, the outcome of intense excitement, would have its aftermath of judgment, perhaps of condemnation.
But for this sense of clinging anxiety about the woman she had learnt to love so dearly the girl would have been so happy.
"I want you to run wild," Mrs. Brenton said to her. "You can always leave the children with me when you want to be alone; they don't bother me in the least."
So on every possible occasion Caroline was out of the house either with the children or without them, and day by day she blossomed out a little more into health and good looks.
"I wonder if you have Irish blood in your veins," Mrs. Brenton asked her on one occasion when they went for a brisk walk together. "Your eyes are distinctly Irish, you know."
Caroline had laughed.
"I may be a Hottentot for all I know about myself. Undoubtedly I must have had some beginning, but what it was I have not the least idea."