"It's more likely that he will convert me," she muttered, but the remark fell on unheeding ears.
"I wish you would let me tell Mrs. Berry about it," Mrs. Cary went on. "It might make quite a nice impression, and stop her saying disagreeable things. Of course, if your intimacy with His Highness was due to your desire to bring him to a nice Christian state, it would be quite excusable. I might even ask Mr. Berry for some of those tracts he is always distributing among the natives."
It was Beatrice's turn to laugh. Her laugh had a disagreeable ring.
"For the Rajah? I wonder how he would reconcile them with all I have been telling him about love, and pity, and tolerance? Besides, my dear mother, diplomatist as you are, don't you see that it wouldn't have the least effect? Do you think the most kindly thinking person in this Station would believe for an instant that I would ever convert anyone? Of course I should be seen through at once. They would say—and perfectly correctly, too—that I was just fooling the Rajah for my own purposes."
"What are your purposes?" Mrs. Cary demanded.
Beatrice raised her eyebrows.
"You knew them a month ago."
"Oh, yes; then it was for Mr. Travers' sake. But now—"
"Now things are the same as they were then. I—I can't leave off what
I have begun."
She had gone over to the piano and, opening it, sat down and began to play a few disjointed bars. Mrs. Cary, who watched the lovely face with what is sometimes called a mother's pride, and which is sometimes no more than the satisfaction of a merchant with salable goods, saw something which made her sit bolt upright in her comfortable chair. A tear rolled down the smooth cheek turned toward her—a single tear, which splashed on the white hand resting on the keys. That was all, but it was enough. With a jingle of gold bracelets and a rustle of silk, Mrs. Cary struggled to her feet and came and stood by her daughter, her heavy hand clasping her by the shoulder.