“Henry was always a fool,” Mrs Morgan put in acidly. “He would not have married Rose if he had possessed ordinary common sense. It will be as well for you to go, Edward; it may lend a little dignity to the occasion.”
Prudence laughed.
“Oh! there’s plenty of dignity—of a joyous nature,” she said. “We don’t rag.”
She crossed to old Mrs Morgan’s side and laid a hand on the back of her chair, feeling remorseful, as she so often felt when she had been provoked into a show of ungraciousness.
“You come too,” she said softly,—“just for an hour, and look on. You’d love it; and they would love to see you there. It’s you, and others like you, that every mother’s son of them is out to fight for. Come and show them you appreciate their sacrifice.”
“I can better show my appreciation,” Mrs Morgan answered, “by praying for them on my knees every night and morning of my life.” She handed her empty tumbler to her daughter-in-law, and stood up. “It is time I went to bed,” she said. “I find these talks very upsetting.”
“I’m sorry,” Prudence said, and suffered the distant good-night kiss, which was the customary parting between them, regardless of any feeling of antagonism that lay behind the caress.