“Fitz will have to look after himself,” opined the young lady. “Did she say anything to you after I came to bed? I came away on purpose.”
Mrs. Ingham-Baker glanced towards the door, and drew her dressing-gown more closely round her.
“Well,” she began volubly, “of course I said what a nice fellow Luke was, so manly and simple, and all that. And she quite agreed with me. I said that perhaps he would get on after all and not bring disgrace upon all her kindness.”
“What do you mean by that?” inquired Agatha.
“I don’t know, my dear, but I said it. And she said she hoped so. Then I asked her if she knew what his wages or salary, or whatever they are called, amounted to, and what his prospects are. She said she knew nothing about his salary, but that his prospects were quite a different matter. I pretended I did not know what she meant. So she gave a little sigh and said that one could not expect to live for ever. I said that I was sure I wished some people could, and she smiled in a funny way.”
“You do not seem to have done it very well,” the younger and more scientific campaigner observed coldly.
“Oh, but it was all right, Agatha dear. I understand her so well. And I said I was sure that Luke would deserve anything he got; that of course it was different for Fitz, because his life is all set out straight before him. And she said I was quite right.”
The report was finished, and Agatha sat for some moments with the brush on her lap looking into the fire with the deep thoughtfulness of a cool tactician.
“I am sure he was struck with you,” said the mother fervently.
After all she was only fit for a very small command very far in the rear. She never saw the singular light in Agatha’s eyes.