Aggie remembered neither Rosemary nor her foal. But she was sorry for Ladslove. She was grateful to him, too, for holding Susie’s attention and diverting it from all the things she didn’t want her to see. She was afraid of Susie; afraid of her sympathy; afraid of her saying something about Barbara (she couldn’t speak of little Bessie, Susie’s only child, who had died three years ago). Above all, she was afraid of Susie’s inquisitive tongue and searching eyes.
She flung herself into fictitious reminiscences of the Queningford stud. She couldn’t have done worse.
“Oh, Aggie,” said her sister, “you do mix them up so.”
“Well,” said poor Aggie, “there are so many of them, I can’t keep count.”
“Never mind, dear.” Aggie’s words recalled Susie to her sisterly duties. “I haven’t asked after the children yet. How many are there? I can’t keep count, either, you know.”
Aggie turned away, found the old coat she had been lining, and spread it on her lap. Susie’s eye roamed and rested on the coat, and Aggie’s followed it.
“Do excuse my going on with this. Arthur wants it.”
Susie smiled in recognition of the familiar phrase. Ever since he had first appeared in Queningford, Arthur had always been wanting something. But, as she looked at the poor coat, she reflected that one thing he had never wanted, or had never asked for, and that was help.
“Aggie,” she said, “I do hope that if you ever want a little help, dear, you’ll come to me.”
Susie, preoccupied with the idea of liberality, could not see that she had chosen her moment badly. Her offer, going as it did, hand-in-hand with her glance, reflected upon Arthur.