He was glad to see her smile.
“That’s the idea!” he said. “Thing is, not to mope. First day or two—pretty hard, without the little girl. Thing is, to distract your mind. It’s early. Plenty of time for a matinée. I’ll telephone for a couple of seats at the Palace. You drink your tea and then get your hat on. That’s right, Hilda! Tea—that’s what Mrs. Holland needs!”
But Hilda was not responsive to his good humor just now. Her eyes and nose were red, and her blunt face wore an expression of angry defiance. She poured out a cup of tea and set it before Mrs. Holland in stony silence. She was suffering, this faithful heart, and it was her own grief that she defied. She had loved Joyce so, and she missed her so greatly!
Holland watched his wife in silence for a time.
“By the way,” he said, “that Johnson girl, you know—”
Mrs. Holland glanced up, in nowise deceived by his casual tone.
“Who? Stella’s daughter?”
“Yes. Er—pathetic case, don’t you think?”
“I don’t know much about her,” replied Mrs. Holland dryly.
“Well, it seems to me—I was talking to her—as far as I can see, a very pathetic case.”