“Tired, eh?” said he. “Well, sit down, my dear—sit down! Hard day, eh?”
“No,” she said; “a beautiful, a very wonderful day!”
“That’s the way to look at it,” he replied approvingly. “That’s the spirit, eh?”
Stella’s daughter had risen now, and was looking at Holland with angry eyes and a trembling lip. He had forgotten all about her, just because Mrs. Holland had come in! The way he looked at his wife, as if he didn’t even know that there were lines around her eyes and gray in her hair! The way she looked at him, as if she were so proudly and gratefully sure of him and of herself!
“I’m going home!” the girl announced vehemently.
They both turned toward her, a little surprised, so that she felt like an ill mannered child; and indeed she was a child, with only a child’s crude weapons—a poor, ignorant, reckless child.
“My dear,” said Madeline gently, “tell your mother I’ll come to see her to-morrow, and we’ll talk things over—about your music, and so on.”
The girl gave one last glance at Holland, but she knew it was useless. When Mrs. Holland was there, she simply didn’t count with him.
“Good night!” she said in a sulky, unsteady voice.
“Good night!” their kind, grown-up voices answered in unison.