When Mrs. Waring’s knock came, she was sitting listlessly looking out of the window.
“Oh, I am so sickeningly tired,” she said, “and I wish she would not always knock in that tremulous way.” She hardened her face and threw the door open.
Her mother gave a quick little swallow and came forward falteringly, while Gwen still held the door open and watched her.
“Will you please close the door, dear Gwen?” she asked.
Gwen complied, and then came towards the basket and lifted one of the white frilly things carelessly.
Suddenly the truth flashed on her and she trembled with indignation, while her mother stood pathetically before her, like a criminal at the bar.
Gwen was the first to speak; her mother’s face touched her in a vague way.
“Won’t you sit down, mother?” she said, in her cold gentle voice. “Do you wish me to have these things? I am so very much obliged to you. I ordered some before I left London, but I believe it is always better to have a reserve stock of everything.”
“I thought I would like to see a child of yours in the little things,” faltered her mother.
A horrible feeling came on Gwen that her mother was about to cry. She took out one or two of the things.