XII
THAT Annabel knew her own mind, there was no question; and that Annabel also knew her mother’s mind, there was no question in Annabel’s mind.... She was not perhaps altogether responsible for this feeling about her mother. It would have taken a more astute person than Annabel to discover that all that went on underneath Eleanor More’s quiet look was not open for the world to read.
Annabel loved her mother and trusted her; and to the best of her ability she took care of her—though she knew, with a kind of fierce pity, that her mother could never be of her own generation, and that she could not know the real nature of the plans and visions that swept before that generation.
“I am a suffragist!” she announced one day in swift assertion.
And Eleanor More looked up with a quiet smile. “I am one, too,” she replied.
Annabel stared at her a minute. “I didn’t know you were—a suffragist!”
Then she looked at her with slow suspicion.
“You know what a suffragist is, don’t you?”
“Yes.” Eleanor went on with her sewing.
“Oh—I Well.... am going to march—in the procession!” She was watching her mother’s face.