Alfred had been lounging in the shadowed corner against a heap of old magazines tied in bundles. He sprang up now and cleared the chair, but his sister declined it with a gesture. Her small figure had straightened itself into a kind of haughty rigidity.
“There has been so much to do, mamma,” she explained, in a clear, cool voice. “We have had hundreds of things to buy and to arrange about. All the responsibility for the housekeeping rests upon me—and Alfred has his studio to do. But of course we should have looked in upon you sooner—and much oftener—if we had thought you wanted us. But really, when we came to you, the very day after our return, it was impossible for us to pretend that you were glad to see us.”
“Oh, I was glad enough,” Mrs. Dabney made answer, mechanically. “Why shouldn't I be glad? And why should you think I wasn't glad? Did you expect me to shout and dance?”
“But you said you wouldn't come to see us in Ovington Square,” Alfred reminded her.
“That's different,” she declared. “What would I be doing in Ovington Square? It's all right for you to be there. I hope you'll be happy there. But it wouldn't add anything to your happiness to have me there; it would be quite the other way about. I know that, if you DON'T. This is my place, here, and I intend to stick to it!”
Julia's bright eyes, scanning the apathetic, stubborn maternal countenance, hardened beyond their wont. “You talk as if there had been some class war declared,” she said, with obvious annoyance. “You know that Uncle Stormont would like nothing better than to be as nice to you as he is to us.”
“Uncle Stormont!” Mrs. Dabney's repetition of the words was surcharged with hostile sarcasm. “But his name was Stormont as much as it was Joel,” broke in Alfred, from his dark corner. “He has a perfect right to use the one he likes best.”
“Oh, I don't dispute his right,” she replied, once more in her passionless monotone. “Everybody can call themselves whatever they please. It's no affair of mine. You and your sister spell your father's name in a way to suit yourselves: I never interfered, did I? You have your own ideas and your own tastes. They are quite beyond me—but they're all right for you. I don't criticize them at all. What I say is that it is a great mercy your uncle came along, with his pockets full of money to enable you to make the most of them. If I were religious I should call that providential.”
“And that's what we DO call it,” put in Julia, with vivacity. “And why should you shut your doors against this Providence, mamma? Just think of it! We don't insist upon your coming to live at Ovington Square at all. Probably, as you say, you would be happier by yourself—at least for the present. But when Uncle St—when uncle says there's more than enough money for us all, and is only too anxious for you to let him do things for you—why, he's your own brother! It's as if I should refuse to allow Alfred to do things for me.”
“That you never did,” interposed the young man, gayly. “I'll say that for you, Jule.”