“Simply mentioned that we’d be out, and that—well, I didn’t think her practicing would bother any one, you see.”
“Yes—I see!” said Mrs. Holland.
He lingered in the doorway, as if there were something else he wanted to say; but whatever it may have been, he decided against voicing it.
“Then you’ll get on your bonnet and shawl, eh?” he suggested.
She smiled affably, and off he went.
Mrs. Holland sat very still, listening to his footsteps going down the hall. Her heart was filled with anger.
“On his own daughter’s wedding day!” she thought. “A girl younger than Joyce—a silly, artful little thing like that! Of course, she’s laughing at him. Very well—let her! I shan’t try to stop him. He can make himself just as ridiculous as he likes!”
She poured herself another cup of tea, and ate the toast that Hilda had brought with her. Anger had given her an appetite and a sort of energy. Mope? Not she!
As she went to dress, she passed the closed door of Joyce’s room, with only a strange little qualm that was like the warning of a neuralgic pain. Later would come the moment for the full realization of her loss. Just now she had an important task to perform. She had to dress so that she would look her best. She had to appear before Frank in the most nonchalant and pleasant humor. She had to show him that she wasn’t at all angry, and didn’t care in the least how absurd he was about poor Stella’s daughter.
She succeeded. That is, she was so very, very polite and casual that Frank was somewhat dismayed. His intention had been to cheer her up, and she gave him no chance for that. She never mentioned Joyce, she never once looked downcast, but kept her eyes fixed upon the stage, showing a lively interest even in the trained poodles.