'Ah!—they told you that, did they?'—The speaker turned a little white. 'And you wonder—don't you?—that I can go on talking about frocks, and new ways of doing one's hair?'
She moved away from Lucy, a touch of cold defensive dignity effacing all her pliant sweetness.
Lucy followed and caught her hand.
'Oh no! no!'—she said—'it is only so brave and good of you—to be able still—to take an interest—'
'Do I take it?' said Eleanor, scornfully, raising her other hand and letting it fall.
Lucy was silenced. After a moment Eleanor looked round, calmly took the photograph of the child from the table, and held it towards Lucy.
'He was just two—his birthday was four days before this was taken. It's the picture I love best, because I last saw him like that—in his night-gown. I was very ill that night—they wouldn't let me stay with my husband—but after I left him, I came and rocked the baby and tucked him up—and leant my face against his. He was so warm and sweet always in his sleep. The touch of him—and the scent of him—his dear breath—and his curls—and the moist little hands—sometimes they used to intoxicate me—to give me life—like wine. They did me such good—that night.'
Her voice did not tremble. Tears softly found their way down Lucy's face.
And suddenly she stooped, and put her lips, tenderly, clingingly, to Mrs.
Burgoyne's hand.
Eleanor smiled. Then she herself bent forward and lightly kissed the girl's cheek.
'Oh! I am not worthy either to have had him—or lost him—' she said bitterly. There was a little pause, which Eleanor broke. 'Now really we must go to Aunt Pattie—mustn't we?'