Mrs. Marston looked up; her mouth, that had fallen in a little, trembling pitifully, and her eyes smarting with the thick, painful tears of age.
'It wasn't you, my dear,' she said; 'you never forget; it was—the young woman.'
One's god must at all hazards go clear of blame.
Edward kissed her, but with reserve, and when he got into the trap he put an arm protectingly round Hazel.
'What a fool I am!' he thought. 'Now everything's spoilt.'
In the silent store-room, hour by hour, Mrs. Marston propelled the mixture of sugar and egg through her icing syringe, building complex designs of frosty whiteness.
Her back ached, and it seemed a long way round the cake, but she went on until Martha, with a note of sympathetic understanding in her voice, announced:
'Yer dinner's in, mum, and a cup of tea along of it.'
Mrs. Marston sighed gratefully.
'How nice and pleasant!' she said; 'but not as nice and pleasant as it was—before.'