“But I’d like to wear my black silk. I don’t often, now.”
“You can wear what you like, mother. Only let us have tea as we always have it. I’m sure she’d like it better. Not sardines or tinned salmon or any of those things. They only have light tea because they have dinner afterward. It would be silly of us to pretend to be anything but what we are.”
“But they’ll think——”
“I don’t care what they think.”
Mrs. Fourmy stole a quick glance at him and said:
“No. You never do.”
Her tone roused him to a hope that the old mother had come again, and he turned to her, only to see the quick light die down in her eyes and into them come the querulous questioning expression that seemed to forbid him to pass beyond the empty words and looks she gave him. He realized then how false an idea he must have given to Linda, and he wished she were not coming.
When the day arrived, just before he went to fetch Linda he sought out his mother, and found her dressing in her room with his father lying on his bed smoking and reading.
“I’m going now,” said René. “I shan’t be more than half an hour.”
“I don’t mind betting,” chuckled his father, “that you’ll be more than that. There’s no end to it when these women get to dressing up for each other. Look at your mother; she’s been brushing her hair this half-hour past.”