“When you are my age, my dear, you will no doubt live to see, as I have seen, all the things you cannot imagine taking place,” said Miss Lestrange, putting down her tea, which she had not finished, as if she did not like it.
There had been things in their conversation which had not pleased her, but this last hit had told (if you go on hitting long enough, some hit generally does). She had expected to find Miss Walton good-looking and good-humored; she had not expected to find her unembarrassed and well-armed. However, Miss Lestrange always dealt with the unexpected as if it was perfectly ordinary, so that no one ever discovered her mistakes.
“I believe you are to be introduced shortly to your step-son!” Miss Lestrange began reflectively. “I hope you will take to the poor child.”
“I always love children,” said Edith gently.
“Ah!” said Miss Lestrange, “that is a refreshing change from the modern note. Annette’s child, however--I refer to my brother’s former wife--is peculiar. Annette was highly sensitive, like a spring blossom, and her son takes after her. I shall be delighted to help you in any way I can upon the subject.”
Edith said:
“He is coming at five o’clock; I hope very much he won’t dislike me.”
“My dear, why should he?” said Miss Lestrange, rising to her feet and holding out her hand. “He is not old enough to remember his mother, fortunately--I mean, of course, there will be no soreness of comparison as there might be with an older child. We will meet again soon, shall we not? Good-bye.”
Edith suddenly found that she could say nothing more; a slow paralysis of icy cold seemed to be numbing her limbs and brain. She could find no more words; this woman--pleasant, courteous, heartless--seemed to have pelted her to death with innumerable hailstones. She stood breathless and quivering in the doorway, and there Lady Walton found her.
“My dear!” she said quickly. “What is the matter?”