“Well, neither Sophy nor I have time to go,” said Mrs. Jebb, “and it doesn’t really matter at——”
“If it’s the right thing to have I’ll go and fetch it,” interposed Andy desperately, which shows once more what any man—even a new vicar, who thinks he knows nearly everything—will do for the Beloved before he gets her.
It was disappointing that the Atterton girls did not enter the guest-chamber prepared for them with such care, after all, but laid their sunshades and dust-coats down in the hall.
“You’re sure you wouldn’t like to wash your hands?” urged Andy, thinking of the black and white pins, scented soap, and violet powder.
“Mine are quite clean. I don’t know about Elizabeth’s,” said Norah, with her little smile, marching into the dining-room, followed by her brother Bill.
“Mamma was so sorry not to be able to come at the last minute,” apologised Elizabeth. “But she is not very well to-day.”
“She took the schoolmaster’s words to heart the night of the dancing class and ‘wanted to willow,’ ” said Norah. “At least she wanted to willow more than she did. So she started some sort of treatment—hot water—strict diet—and it has upset her.”
“It wasn’t the treatment that upset the mater,” said Bill, with a grin; “it was the way she broke loose last night to make up for a week of fasting. I watched her.”
That was how they talked about their mother, and yet it was strikingly evident in every word they spoke how they loved her and one another. An atmosphere of invincible family affection surrounded the Attertons like a glow of firelight—as if they were always gathered in spirit round a cheerful hearth.
“Father’s in Marshaven, gloating over a new row of red-brick houses,” said Norah. “But you knew he couldn’t come? He has a magistrates’ meeting at Bardswell to-day as well.”