Polly was silent, perplexed to know how to get rid of this tenacious young creature. Angelica seized the opportunity.
"Well," she said, "I’m sorry I came, bothering you; but as long as I’m here, hadn’t I better stay till she gets home again? I’m better than nobody!"
III
It was the longest day Angelica had ever spent. She didn’t go out of the room; even lunch was brought to them there. She sat, answering whenever she was spoken to, but for the most part silent, looking out of the window at the country landscape, which held nothing to interest her gamine eye, and watching the clock. She couldn’t believe that something wouldn’t happen.
She tried, in her very crude way, to study Polly, but she had no success. She watched her lying for long stretches of time with her eyes closed, whether asleep or awake it was impossible to divine. Her face in repose was profoundly mournful, and, unrelieved by the fine black eyes, looked older and more worn. Her mouth had a kindly line, but it was the disillusioned, cynical kindness of one who expects no gratitude.
"I suppose she’s Mr. Eddie’s wife," reflected Angelica. "Well, she’s certainly a lot older than he is—ten years, I’d say. I wonder why they call her Mrs. Geraldine, when her name’s Polly!"
This detail puzzled her greatly. She fancied it must be some custom of rich people. Perhaps Polly was a nickname for Geraldine among them. It didn’t occur to her that it was a surname; she took it for granted that Polly was young Mrs. Russell.
Little by little, as always, her thoughts drifted off to her own future.
"I wonder how it’ll be when I’m married? Anyway, I bet you’d never catch me moping around like she does! If I was rich like her, and got sick, I’d have lots of flowers, and friends coming in all the time—everything nice and pretty and bright; and a trained nurse, too, I guess."
It must be admitted that Angelica had little sympathy. She had a certain amount of facile generosity. She had moods when she was willing to do a great deal for any one she liked; but it was impossible for her to put herself in the place of another, to compassionate any pain which she had not actually felt herself. Losing a baby seemed to her a grief of small significance. She had seen very little of babies, and wasn’t interested in them. To her, at nineteen, the only comprehensible sorrow was that of losing a lover.