"I do hear. And Val sits there and never reproves them; and the old dowager's head and eyes are nodding and twinkling approval."
Lady Laura was an energetic little woman, thin, and pale, and excessively active, with a propensity for setting the world straight, and a tongue as unceremoniously free as the dowager's. In the cause of justice she would have stood up to battle with a giant. Lady Hartledon was about to make some response, but she bade her wait; her attention was absorbed by the children. Perhaps the truth was that she was burning to have a say in the matter herself.
"Maude," she called out, "if that ring is too small for you, it would do for Anne, and be kind of you to give it her."
Maude looked dubious. Left to herself, the child would have been generous enough. She glanced at the dowager.
"May I give it her, grand'ma?"
Grand'ma was conveniently deaf. She would rather have cut the ring in two than it should be given to the hated child: but, on the other hand, she did not care to offend Laura Level, who possessed inconveniently independent opinions, and did not shrink from proclaiming them. Seizing the poker, she stirred the fire, and created a divertissement.
In the midst of it, Edward left his sofa and walked up to the group and their beads. He was very weak, and tottered unintentionally against Anne. The touch destroyed her equilibrium, and she fell into Maude's lap. There was no damage done, but the box of beads was upset on to the carpet. Maude screamed at the loss of her treasures, rose up with anger, and slapped Anne. The child cried out.
"Why d'you hit her?" cried Reginald. "It was Edward's fault; he pushed her."
"What's that!" exclaimed Edward. "My fault! I'll teach you to say that," and he struck Reginald a tingling slap on the cheek.
Of course there was loud crying. The dowager looked on with a red face. Lady Margaret Cooper, who had no children of her own, stopped her ears. Lady Laura laid her hand on her sister-in law's wrist.