“He does not talk about himself.”
“It is your turn to get tea! It is Bridget’s afternoon out.”
Mrs. Wadsworth was a little lady something less than five feet in height, as slight as a girl of twelve, and prettier than either of her daughters; with brown hair, brown eyes, and the sprightliest manner possible.
“Young enough to be Tessa’s sister,” Dunellen declared.
But she was neither sister nor mother as her elder daughter defined the words.
“If you get him, Tessa, you’ll get a catch,” remarked Mrs. Wadsworth watching the effect of her words.
The first sound of her mother’s voice had brought her to herself, her self-contained, cautious and, oftentimes, sarcastic self.
“Have you any order about tea?”
Her studied respect toward her mother, was pitiful sometimes. It was hard that she could not attain somewhat of her ideal of daughterhood.
“No, but I want you to do an errand for me after tea. I forgot to ask Dine to do it on her way from school.”