"And where do I come in, Aunt Lena? What can I do for you?"
Lady Dashwood looked a little startled.
What May had actually got to do was: well, not to do anything but just to be sweet and amusing as she always was. She had got to show the Warden what a charming woman was like. And the rest, he had to do. He had to be fascinated! Lady Dashwood could see a vision of Gwen and her boxes going safely away from Oxford—even the name of Scott disappearing altogether from the Warden's recollection.
But after that, what would happen? May too would have to go away. She was still mourning for her husband—still dreaming at night of that awful sudden news from France. May would, of course, go back to her work and leave the Warden to—well—anything in the wide world was better than "Belinda and Co." And it was this certainty that anything was better than Belinda and Co., this passionate conviction, that had filled Lady Dashwood's mind—to the exclusion of all other things.
It had not occurred to her that May would ask the definite question, "What am I to do?" It was an awkward question.
"What I want you to do," said Lady Dashwood, speaking slowly, while she swiftly sought in her mind for an answer that would be truthful and yet—inoffensive. "Why, May, I want you to give me your moral support."
May looked away from the fire and contemplated the point of her boot, and then she looked at the point of Lady Dashwood's shoe—they were both on the fender rim side by side—May's right boot, Lady Dashwood's left shoe.
"Your moral support," repeated Lady Dashwood. "Well, then you stay a week. Many, many thanks. To-night I shall sleep well."
Lady Dashwood was conscious that "moral support" did not quite serve the purpose she wanted, she had not quite got hold of the right words.
May's profile was absolutely in repose, but Lady Dashwood could feel that she was pondering over that expression "moral support." So Lady Dashwood was driven to repeat it once more. "Moral support," she said very firmly. "Your moral support is what I want, dear May."