Eugenia stared—that is, she smiled; she thought of her poor little chalet and she wondered whether her hostess were jesting. “Yes, my house is exquisite,” she said; “though not to be compared to yours.”
“And my son is so fond of going to see you,” Mrs. Acton added. “I am afraid my son will miss you.”
“Ah, dear madam,” said Eugenia, with a little laugh, “I can’t stay in America for your son!”
“Don’t you like America?”
The Baroness looked at the front of her dress. “If I liked it—that would not be staying for your son!”
Mrs. Acton gazed at her with her grave, tender eyes, as if she had not quite understood. The Baroness at last found something irritating in the sweet, soft stare of her hostess; and if one were not bound to be merciful to great invalids she would almost have taken the liberty of pronouncing her, mentally, a fool. “I am afraid, then, I shall never see you again,” said Mrs. Acton. “You know I am dying.”
“Ah, dear madam,” murmured Eugenia.
“I want to leave my children cheerful and happy. My daughter will probably marry her cousin.”
“Two such interesting young people,” said the Baroness, vaguely. She was not thinking of Clifford Wentworth.
“I feel so tranquil about my end,” Mrs. Acton went on. “It is coming so easily, so surely.” And she paused, with her mild gaze always on Eugenia’s.