"Mother!" said Catherine. The old fire and anger had come into her voice. Unusual as it may be with any girl brought up in such a worldly manner, Catherine hated to take advantage of people.
"You mistake me, Kate," said her mother, shrinking back from her daughter's eyes, as if she had received a blow. "I want you to have the pleasure of Beatrice Meadowsweet's friendship."
"Oh, yes," replied Catherine, relieved.
"And," continued the mother, her voice growing firm and her dark eyes meeting her daughter's fully, "I don't mean to be out in the cold, so I shall make a friend of Mrs. Meadowsweet."
Mabel burst into a merry girlish laugh. Catherine walked across the grass to pick a rose. Mrs. Bertram took the rose from her daughter's hand, although she knew and Catherine knew that it was never intended for her. She smelt the fragrant, half-open bud, then placed it in her dress, with a simple, "Thank you, my dear."
"I am going to write a note to Mrs. Meadowsweet," she said, after a minute or two. "I know Beatrice is coming here this afternoon. It would give me pleasure if her mother accompanied her."
"Shall we take the note to the Gray House, mother?" eagerly asked Mabel. "It is not too long a walk. We should like to go."
"No, my dear. You and Kate can amuse yourselves in the garden, or read in the house, just as you please. I will write my note quietly, and when it is written take it down to Tester at the lodge. No, thank you, my loves, I should really like the walk, and would prefer to take it alone."
Mrs. Bertram then returned to her drawing-room, sat down by her davenport, and wrote as follows:
"Rosendale Manor.