‘That’s right,’ she said, clutching her grey wrap.
Two words; but enough. How many times had not Jocelyn told her not to say That’s right? But he had told her not to say nearly everything; she couldn’t possibly remember all the things she wasn’t to say, however hard she tried. Indeed, Sally in her flustered soul was thinking what a mercy it was she hadn’t added ‘mum.’ It had been on the tip of her tongue, faced by a lady, and she had hung on to it just in time.
Mrs. Luke, startled, was arrested for an instant in her advance. Then, not after all quite certain that she had heard what she had heard—it seemed impossible that she should have—she went close up to Sally and kissed her. She had to reach up to her for Sally was half a head the taller, besides being rigid with fright.
‘Sally, kiss my mother and make friends,’ said Jocelyn.
‘Yes, Mr. Luke——’ said Sally, making a quick downward lunge of her head.
‘Now, Sally——please,’ protested Jocelyn. ‘She can’t,’ he added, turning to his mother, ‘get used to calling me by my Christian name.’
‘Sorry,’ said Sally; and felt so very warm that she had a queer conviction that even her stomach must be blushing.
Mrs. Luke stood looking at her, trying to smile. She now knew everything. No need for words from Jocelyn, for explanations. She knew, and she understood. Up to her to behave well; up to her to behave wonderfully, and make him more than ever certain there was no one in the whole world like his mother.
‘She’ll learn,’ she said, smiling as best she could. ‘Won’t you—Salvatia?’
If only, thought Sally, she were back at Woodles; if only, only she were back safe and quiet with her father at Woodles.