They crowded into the hall at the sound of Vanna’s patent knock, and drew her into the room in a clamour of welcome. Each one of the four had a budget of news to unfold, and was eager, for the privilege of first innings. Jean made several futile efforts to send the children back to their several games, but soon abandoned the effort and lay back comfortably in her chair, content to bide her time. As usual, she was beautifully dressed, though more simply than of old. In the shaded lamplight it was impossible to believe that her fortieth birthday was well in sight. Her soft dark hair was as abundant as ever, and the thinness of her face seemed but to show more plainly the exquisite moulding of her features. Vanna glanced at her with the old, never-dying admiration, as she held her godchild on her knee, and listened to the eager confidences of her sisters, and Jean smiled back with affectionate languor. Behind her in a recess of the wall stood a medley of photographs, large and small: Mr Goring, white-haired and spectacled, proudly holding his eldest grandchild on his knee; the two tall, handsome brothers; Robert, with uplifted head and happy, smiling eyes; baby faces nestled closely together. At her feet in front of the old brass fender lay Robert’s dippers waiting his return, but Jean had no thought of any of these things. She had an air of snatching the moment’s leisure, as something precious which should not be wasted, and her eyes showed a dreamy indifference to the children’s sallies—an abstraction which, with juvenile sharpness, they were quick to note. Vanna was a newcomer, and could always be counted on as an interested audience; but no normal child can be satisfied for long if there remains one person in the room who is not paying the due meed of attention. Before ten minutes were passed the trio were once more swarming over their mother’s chair, tugging at her gown to attract attention.
“Jean!” asked Vanna suddenly, “are you happy?”
Jean stared at her with stolid surprise.
“Of course I am happy,” she said flatly. “What do you mean?”
“But are you blissfully, ecstatically, unspeakably happy—almost too happy to live?”
Jean’s stare took on a tinge of affront.
“No! Of course not. Why should I be?”
“Why should you not? If such a thing is possible to any one on earth, it ought to be to you. You have everything that is worth having—everything! Robert—his wonderful love; these children, interest in life, hope, expectation. You are so rich!”
Jean’s face softened. She looked at the white-robed figures at her feet, and for a moment her eyes shone; for a moment, and then once more the shadow fell.
“Yes,” she said. “Oh, yes, I know! I am well off, but one can’t live on the heights; and, oh, dear! oh, dear, there are such worries! Morton has given me notice. It’s so difficult to find a decent cook for small wages. I shall have to begin the weary old hunt once more. And Lorna keeps complaining of her eyes. Robert says she must see an oculist, but I do so dread it. If she has to wear spectacles it will break my heart. And you remember those dining-room curtains that I sent to be dyed? They came back to-day the wrong shade—simply shrieking at the walls. Ruined! Isn’t it maddening—I feel so depressed—”