When she saw that her annoyance was giving her mother cause for uneasiness, she tried to put it on one side.
“I am a nasty, remembering sort of individual, you know, love,” she said, falling into her old way, so as to carry things off more lightly, “and you are a sweet, forgiving one; there is all the difference between us! Since it is your pleasure that Christina should come here as she suggests, let her come. The house is big enough to hold even her boxes, and she can have her old room. I will write to her, if you wish, to-night.”
Mrs. Pennington’s face lost its irritation and grew placid and gentle again.
“Thank you, Polly, dear,” she said. “You always do what I want. It makes me so happy to have my poor Christina here just now. You must see, dear, that I could not refuse to do what she asks. I am her mother, remember.”
“Yes, darling, you are her mother,” Polly answered; to herself she added bitterly; “The mother she has neglected and forgotten for this long year.” But never for an instant, she now determined, should any harsh or bitter word cross her lips.
It was a whole fortnight since Christina had journeyed from Dynechester to London to learn she was a widow. It had been by no means an unpleasant fortnight to her.
She had left herself entirely in Valentine’s hands, and he had taken full care of her.
He had installed her in a hotel, and summoned her maid. He saw her every day, and was more moved than he could have told her by her quiet, pathetic attitude.
He told Grace how sorry he was for her.
“With my usual pigheadedness I have stuck to my first opinion that she was a worldly, hard woman; now I see how wrong I was. You cannot think how she grieves, Grace.”