“Because she did,” Eric replied simply.
Winifred’s eyes sparkled. Her admiration for Hertha rose still higher.
“Just what I should have expected of her,” she thought to herself.
“My dear Eric,” said his mother, with a very slight touch of annoyance in her tone, “I think you talk nonsense sometimes.”
He smiled.
“Sometimes, perhaps, but not always,” he said.
But he rose from his seat as he spoke, for he was more than quick at reading his mother’s feelings, and went towards the piano.
“I’ll look out the songs, mother, that I want to try over,” he remarked. “That’s to say, if you are still good for a little practising before dinner.”
“Certainly I am. Indeed, we hurried home partly on that account,” Mrs Balderson replied. “I will run up-stairs and take off my things in a moment. And you, dears, will have a little quiet time for your letters, and for resting, if you are tired.”
“I shall be glad to write my letters, but I am not the least tired, thank you,” said Winifred, in her clear, slightly incisive tone, almost as if resenting the kindly imputation.