“You will be glad to have your daughter near,” replied Andy, with so much calmness that Mrs. Atterton felt greatly relieved. It would be highly unpleasant if there were anything—with Elizabeth at the Manor and Mr. Deane at the Vicarage—so inconvenient at Mothers’ Meetings and Christmases.
She looked up at her girl with tears of joy in her eyes because they were not to be parted farther than the next parish.
As Elizabeth looked back at her mother, the colour started under her eyes and slowly crept under her whole face. It was like watching a rose open softly; and her tremulous mouth that she pursed up to keep firm, was like the heart of a rose.
Andy put out his hand hastily.
“Then I’ll be off now, Mrs. Atterton. You shall have the sketches and estimates as soon—”
“Please, wait a moment,” interrupted Mrs. Atterton. “Oh, here is Edwards with the tray. You must have a sandwich before you start on your drive.”
Andy did not want a sandwich, of course, but it was impossible to refuse being fed by Mrs. Atterton without being boorish, because she made it so the outward and visible sign of that atmosphere which pervaded the Atterton household. So he ate a combination of bread and meat which ought to have been very good, but which tasted like chaff to him at that moment.
The others came round and took a cup of tea or a glass of milk and sweet cakes or sandwiches, with no appearance of wanting them particularly, but rather as a further expression of the family sentiment: “If there is anything pleasant going let’s be in it!”
Elizabeth’s cake, in fact, crumbled in her saucer, while she drank the tea thirstily enough; and Bill remarked with a chuckle—
“I say—no breakfast—and now leaving her cake! Our Elizabeth ‘wants to willow,’ now she’s an engaged young woman, but banting won’t do it.” He clapped his sister on the back: “You’re not made that way, my girl.”