After Hal had left on his trip that night, Moira put up her car—she had driven him to the station herself—and walked into the library. She found Mathilda embroidering, a pastime in which she was skilful, and took a frank pride. It was her substitute for artistic expression, as she said, a gift she had always honestly envied. Everybody they knew, Moira thought, longed for artistic expression—and Hal had been right to scorn it. There were Mary Cawthorn and Tempe Riddle—as soon as people like that had taken up writing verse, she herself had dropped it. She had turned exclusively to her painting. That, at least, you couldn’t do at all, without some foreground, some knowledge and practice. She was happy that her youth had been industrious enough to bring her a measure of these. And she did not take it seriously.
“Well,” said Mathilda, “you’ve seen your darling off?”
The girl did not attempt to conceal her surprise. Then she laughed.
“I suppose nobody could really have failed to know, who had been around the house these last few days. Still, we thought we were so clever.”
“There’s such a thing as being too clever. When you and Hal began to be stiff toward each other, I knew what was happening.”
“We must have been a fine pair of actors.”
“But I’ve seen it coming all along. Before either of you did, I believe.”
Moira flopped upon the cricket at her mother’s feet, and looked into her face affectionately.
“And that means, darling, that you don’t object?”
Mathilda ran her slim hand through the short, dark curls leaning against her knee.