Speeding on the heels of her delight came shyness. She shook hands awkwardly, trying to back out immediately. But Helen did not let her go at once.
“We are a lot of trouble, I’m afraid, Miss Thorstad.”
“Oh, no you’re not. It’s not a bit of trouble. I’ll have lunch ready soon, but it will be very simple,” said Freda.
Her voice, thought Freda, is like her clothes. It’s luxurious.
The lunch was ready soon and to the visitors it was very pleasant as they went into the little dining-room. It was so small that the chairs on one side had to be careful not to back up against the sideboard. The rug was worn to thinness but the straight curtains at the windows, which did not shut out the sun, were daffodil yellow and on the table the little pottery bowl with three blossoming daffodils picked out the same note of defiant sunlight again. Helen looked around her appreciatively.
Freda served them quietly, slipping into her own chair, nearest the door to the kitchen, only after the dishes were all in place and every one eating. She took her own plate from her mother absently. The others were talking. She listened to them, the throaty, assured voice of Mrs. Brownley, Miss Duffield’s clear, definite tones and the voice of Mrs. Flandon, with a note of laughter in it always, as if she mocked at the things she said. Yet always with light laughter.
“Are you interested in all this political business?” asked Mrs. Flandon of her, suddenly.
“No,” said Freda, “Not especially. But mother is, so I hear a great deal of it.”
Her mother laughed a little reprovingly.
“Freda has been too busy to give these things time and thought.”