"My goodness, mother, what a perfectly poisonous idea! Why, it would ruin Moreton after having begun here. Of course we can't."
She came and sat down on a stool near her mother and leaned her head on her mother's knees.
"I'm longing to see Hilary," she repeated, playing with a bit of her silk dressing-gown nervously. "And I have something to tell him, Mum—he'll—he'll be having a little sister in the spring."
Poor Mrs. Walbridge sat perfectly still for a moment, her hand on her daughter's silky brown hair. Another baby, another duty, another worry, and she would be the only one who would really suffer, although Maud and her gay, well-meaning young husband would talk a great deal about their responsibilities.
"Mum," Maud said coaxingly. "Darling, you've got a new book coming out, haven't you? Don't go and buy Paul any more of those nasty Japanese things; those monkeys make me sick anyhow. Be a lamb, and let me have a hundred pounds to see me through, will you?"
There was nothing particularly imploring in her voice, for she was quite used to asking favours of her mother, and repeated favours always turn into rights sooner or later. When her mother didn't answer, she screwed round on her stool and looked up.
"Why, Mum," she cried, "what's the matter? Why do you look like that?"
Mrs. Walbridge kissed her. "Nothing, dear, I'm tired. I've been working very hard."
She rose and her big daughter scrambled to her feet, laughing merrily.
"Oh, you old pet! Was it working hard at it's psychological masterpiece? Anybody'd think you were what's-his-name, who wrote 'Elektra'!" She laughed again, pleasant, full-throated, musical laughter, that yet cut her hearer to her sore heart.