“Yes, certainly; but, Edith,—Mrs. Schuyler,—my dear,—are you not in danger of spoiling her by making so much of her. You could hardly do more if she were Alice herself, and such people do not often bear sudden elevation.”
“Oh, Howard, what do you mean? You are not sorry we gave her a home?” Edith said, in much perplexity at his manner, as she followed him into the nursery.
“No, not exactly that, certainly not; under the circumstances we could hardly have done otherwise than to give her a home, but we might have stopped there; we need not have made her one of the family, and our having done so may be productive of a great deal of harm. My daughter Julia is already in open rebellion, and has said things which disturb me very much.”
“Julia,” Edith began, indignantly, but checked herself at once, as she met the questioning look in her husband’s eyes, and saw the meeting together of his eyebrows.
Julia had been her only bête noir since the departure of Miss Rossiter, and though they were outwardly extremely polite to each other, Edith knew that she was looked upon by the young lady as an intruder and adventuress, and that the slightest provocation on her part would fan the smouldering fire into a flame.
Not a hint of this, however, had she ever given her husband, who, as she stopped suddenly, said:
“You were going to speak of Julia.”
“Nothing of any consequence,” she replied, “except that I will keep Gertie out of her way as much as possible.”
“Yes, certainly, and now I must go. I have an appointment in town. There’s the carriage at the door. Good-by.”
He kissed her forehead and stooped to kiss his boy, when Edith said hesitatingly: