Jacqueline’s voice was usually high-pitched, rapid, and musical, but whenever she meant to be saucy she brought it down to great meekness and modesty.
“Major Throckmorton, you know, is a widower. I don’t believe in grieving forever, like mamma. Suppose, now, Judith, you should—”
But Judith, whose indulgence to Jacqueline rarely failed, now rose up with a pale face.
“Jacqueline, you forget yourself.”
Usually one rebuke of the sort was enough for Jacqueline, but this time it was not. She came and clasped Judith around the waist, and held her tight, looking into her eyes with a sort of timid boldness.
“Just let me say one thing. Mamma is sacrificing all of us—you and me and papa—to—to Beverley—”
“Hush, Jacqueline!”
“No, I won’t hush. Judith, how long was it from the time you first met Beverley until you married him?”
“Two months.”
“And how much of that time were you together?”