Bertie didn’t say much, but from time to time Claudine caught him looking at his Giulia with half a smile, a look tender and a trifle amused. He wasn’t going to take her too seriously, or expect too much of her. It was, in short, one of those loves which cause a mother very little pain; she knows she is not supplanted, not diminished. Singular that two of her children should “marry beneath them”!
She took leave of her future daughter-in-law with a kiss, and the man servant in the hall opened the door for them.
“It’s pouring!” said Bertie. “Go in again, Mammy, and I’ll send a few flunkies for a taxi.”
“I’d rather not. We’ll find one.”
“You mustn’t get wet, especially with that cold. I can’t allow it!”
But she was briskly descending the steps, and he had to hurry after her.
“How obstinate you are, Mammy! If you won’t think of your health, have some regard for your pretty little hat!”
She shook her head, laughing. She was so happy with this son, with his affectionate, half effeminate ways, his open admiration. She had with him a gay and coquettish little air no one else ever saw.
“Come along! We’ll be sure to pick up a cab in a minute, Bertie! Look at the streams of them going by!”
But all the cabs were full. It was quite fifteen minutes before they stopped an empty one, and by that time Claudine was chilled to the bone, and shivering in her wet shoes and dripping skirts.