“Don’t worry the mammy any more now,” said Eileen. “Lie back in your chair, dear mammy. Lettie, run
upstairs for mother’s eau de Cologne; we will put some on her forehead. Poor dear darling, she’s the sweetest mother in all the world; isn’t she, Marjorie?”
“A perfect angel,” said Marjorie.
She stooped and kissed her mother. Eileen also kissed her. There they stood in their shabby dresses, a little piece of Eileen’s petticoat peeping below her skirt, their short hair pushed up from their foreheads, their handsome faces alight with fire and excitement.
Mrs. Chetwynd glanced at them, and despair entered her soul. She had not the slightest chance against them; and she knew it.
The girls left the room, and only Letitia remained behind.
“Well, Lettie, you at least will remain with me,” said Mrs. Chetwynd. “It is terrible to feel that I have brought girls like Marjorie and Eileen into the world. My only comfort is that their poor dear father—such a kind, scholarly, soldierly man—is not here to witness their base ingratitude.”
“But really, Aunt Helen, I don’t think they are base nor ungrateful. They are just modern, you see—terribly modern, the reverse of archaic. They must keep with the times; that they have determined on. There is no use whatever in opposing them. Doubtless life will teach them its own lesson, and they will be delightful when they return from St. Wode’s.”
“How long must they stay there?” asked Mrs. Chetwynd. She took up her handkerchief as she spoke, to wipe away the tears from her eyes.
“I believe the usual course is three years,” said Lettie. “You cannot get your certificate, which is equivalent to a degree, under that time.”