“Mamma dear,” I whispered, “you are too good to me. But I will try to be better. Only will you please let me be more useful to you? I am sure,” I added, and if this was a very little cunning, I don’t think it was in a naughty way—“I am sure I should be far happier if I felt I were of use.”
And of course mamma promised. What would she not have promised me! I think she told over this conversation to papa, and if any lingering feeling of indignation against Evey had still been in her mind, I am sure what he said must have removed it. For the next morning they were both full of plans for my being a great deal with the Whytes, and of little kindnesses we might do to them, without, as papa said, seeming officious or—he hesitated for a word.
“Patronising,” mamma suggested. He smiled at this.
“My dear,” he said, “that we could not possibly be accused of towards the Whytes. You scarcely realise—”
But there he stopped. I felt a little ashamed when I recalled one or two of my speeches to Evey.
“Papa has always such perfectly nice feelings,” I thought; and as I glanced at his kind, quiet face I said to myself that I might indeed be proud of him. And when he kissed me that morning before he went out, I felt something in his kiss that seemed to say he understood me and my new resolutions, better even than mamma did.