“Mother, you’re tired.”
“Yes, my dear, very.”
They sat down on the old sofa together. Mrs. Trenchard, her arms folded, leant back against her daughter’s shoulder.
“Just a moment, Katie dear,” she murmured, “before I undress.”
Suddenly she was asleep.
Katherine sat stiffly, staring before her into the room. Her arm was round her mother, and with the pressure of her hand she felt the soft firmness of the shoulder beneath the dressing-gown. Often in the old days her mother had thus leant against her. The brushing of her hair against Katherine’s cheek brought back to the girl thronging memories of happy, tranquil hours. Those memories flung before her, like reproaching, haunting ghosts, her present unhappiness. Her love for her mother filled her heart; her body thrilled with the sense of it. And so, there in the clumsy, familiar room, the loneliest hour of all life came to her.
She was separated from them all. She seemed to know that she was holding her mother thus for the last time.... Then as her hands tightened, in very protest, about the slumbering body, she was conscious of the presence, behind her, just then where she could not see, of the taunting, laughing figure. She could catch the eyes, the scornful lips, the thin, defiant attitude.
“I’ll take him back! I’ll take him back!” the laughing figure cried.
But Katherine had her bravery. She summoned it all.
“I’ll beat you!” she answered, her arms tight around her mother. “I’ve made my choice. He’s mine now whatever you try!”