Moya blushed with anger.
“You have said enough on that subject, Christine.” Mrs. Bogardus bent her dark, keen gaze upon her daughter's face. “Come”—she rose. “Come with me!”
Christine sat still. “Come!” her mother repeated sternly. “Moya,”—in a different voice,—“your letter was lovely. Shall you read it to your father?”
“Hardly,” said Moya, flushing. “Father does not care for descriptions, and the woods are an old story to him.”
Mrs. Bogardus placed her hands on the girl's shoulders and gave her one of her infrequent, ceremonious kisses, which, like her finest smile, she kept for occasions too nice for words.
IX. — THE POWER OF WEAKNESS
Christine followed her mother to their room, and the two faced each other a moment in pale silence.
Mrs. Bogardus spoke first. “What does this mean?”—her breath came short, perhaps from climbing the stairs. She was a large woman.