"We must strive to please her while she stays."
"Please her!" he echoed. "Anne, my dear, that is stretching Christian charity rather too far."
Anne smiled. "I am a clergyman's daughter, you know, Val."
"If she is wise, she'll abstain from offending you in my presence. I'm not sure but I should lose command of myself, and send her off there and then."
"I don't fear that. She was quite civil when we came up from dinner, and—"
"As she generally is then. She takes her share of wine."
"And asked me if I would excuse her falling into a doze, for she never felt well without it."
Anne was right. The cunning old woman changed her tactics, finding those she had started would not answer. It has been remarked before, if you remember, that she knew particularly well on which side her bread was buttered. Nothing could exceed her graciousness from that evening. The past scene might have been a dream, for all traces that remained of it. Out of the house she was determined not to go in anger; it was too desirable a refuge for that. And on the following day, upon hearing Edward attempt some impudent speech to his new mother, she put him across her knee, pulled off an old slipper she was wearing, and gave him a whipping. Anne interposed, the boy roared; but the good woman had her way.
"Don't put yourself out, dear Lady Hartledon. There's nothing so good for them as a wholesome whipping. I used to try it on my own children at times."