Her mother lifted the frozen gloved hand that seemed to blight like frost, and gave a little tinkling laugh.
"My dear, when you are my age you will not rate so highly what is a mere animal passion. True love would consider the child's material interests first. I still hope," with a little hostile back glance as the barouche rolled out of Suffolk Square, "that Nigel's daughter may not have to grow up in the basement of a lodging-house."
"The basement? Mother!"
"My dear, foolish girl, you surely don't think the room we were in to-day (atrocious taste!) is used by them. No, my dear! They live at the bottom of the area, eat and gossip with the servants; sometimes, I have no doubt, the policeman drops in to tea. The Honorable Mrs. Barbour!" And Lady Lulford gave her unpleasant laugh again.
"Mamma!" cried Leslie, really shocked now, "you don't suppose she uses that?"
"Why not, my dear? She's either very foolish or has more delicacy than I give her credit for if she doesn't. Why, she could have her house full of rich vulgar Americans all the year round. Are we at Lady Dunsmuir's already? Thank heavens, Leslie, we're not calling on the servants' hall this time."
Meanwhile, at the house they had left, an aggrieved small person sat on a cushion and comforted the ache at her heart very much after the fashion of older and presumably wiser people, with mother's rejected dainties. Stretched on a wolf-skin rug, in an attitude that had been a common one with her in days when, the Cornish sun dappling her back and making illuminating splashes on the novelettes that were her mental food, she had dreamed away whole summer afternoons thus in her father's orchard, the farmer's daughter watched the busy, sticky mouth at work, her face wholly given up to the animal affection that Lady Lulford was at that very moment reprehending.
"Why didn't you want to kiss your Aunty Hortense?" she asked presently.
No answer, but much sucking, as the sugary bottom of the cup was reached. The mother loosened the little fingers and put it aside.