"It was poor mother. Something's upset her. She was crying—actually crying. I don't think I've ever seen my mother cry before. There she was, face down on her bed, just howling like a child——"
He winced. "You must learn, dearest," he said gently, "not to tell me things I have no business to know."
She looked up at him through her long lashes and laughed wickedly. "Perhaps if you try long enough," she returned, "you'll make a lady of me."
But his face remained grave. "Your mother," he said, "is a splendid woman, my dear. I've a very great admiration for her."
Griselda loved her mother; most girls do love their mothers, but this homage, from a man she admired and respected so much, surprised her.
"Mother? Little old Mum?" she repeated naïvely. "She's a dear, of course——"
Barclay looked down at her.
"You'll think me an awful old fogey," he said slowly, "but I do seriously wish, my little dear, that you would show a little more—well, understanding, for your mother—to her, I mean."
"Oh, it's you who don't understand," she returned as gravely as he. "I understand, we all do, a great deal more about mother than she could bear to know. Father's always been a beast, but we have to pretend to her that we don't know it——"