'Hadn't you better come in?'
'Yes. But I think you are very unkind, Mrs. Mumford.'
'Miss Derrick, I really can't do anything but leave you alone when you are in such an unpleasant hum our.'
'But that's just what you oughtn't to do. When I'm left alone I sulk, and that's bad for all of us. If you would just get angry and give me what I deserve, it would be all over very soon.'
'You are always talking about "nice" people. Nice people don't have scenes of that kind.'
'No, I suppose not. And I'm very sorry, and if you'll let me beg your pardon—. There, and we might have made it up hours ago. I won't ask you to tell me what you think of Mr. Cobb. I've written him the kind of letter his impudence deserves.'
'Very well. We won't talk of it any more. And if you could be a little quieter in your manners, Louise—'
'I will, I promise I will! Let me say good-night to Mr. Mumford.'
For a day or two there was halcyon weather. On Saturday afternoon Louise hired a carriage and took her friends for a drive into the country; at her special request the child accompanied them. Nothing could have been more delightful. She had quite made up her mind to have a house, some day, at Sutton. She hoped the Mumfords would "always" live there, that they might perpetually enjoy each other's society. What were the rents? she inquired. Well, to begin with, she would be content with one of the smaller houses; a modest, semidetached little place, like those at the far end of Cedar Road. They were perfectly respectable—were they not? How this change in her station was to come about Louise offered no hint, and did not seem to think of the matter.
Then restlessness again came upon her. One day she all but declared her disappointment that the Mumfords saw so few people. Emmeline, repeating this to her husband, avowed a certain compunction.