Mrs. Day shook a sharply dissenting head. "That would not be the same thing at all, my dear child."
"What ought we to do, then? I thought you would know. Mothers have to arrange these things, haven't they?"
"Well, you see, Bessie, usually the young man—"
"I know. But Reggie does not wish to. If you must know, mama, he said so, in so many words."
"Then, Bessie—!"
"But I think that something ought to be done. You ought to do something—or papa. Everything can't be left to me!"
The tip of Bessie's nose grew pink, her lip quivered, tears showed in her pale blue eyes. Mrs. Day laid a soothing hand upon her arm.
"We won't talk of it any more now," she said. "We are both tired. We will sleep on it, Bessie. Go to bed, dear, and leave everything till the morning."
Her silver candlestick in her hand, Mrs. Day trailed her rich green satin across the landing, pausing at the door of Bernard, her second-born, coming between Bessie and Deleah. She listened a moment, then rapped upon the door. "In bed, dear?"
"Yes, mother."