"We may not be in New York this spring," Isabelle replied, waking from her meditations on the subject of Miss Joyce and her daughter. "John's plans are uncertain—and I don't care to go without him."
"You can try Roseboro's, then; but I don't believe you will be satisfied."
"Oh, mamma, can't we go in the motor now!"
And Molly ran to Miss Joyce to dress herself for the expedition.
Isabelle had scrutinized her little daughter with fresh interest the few days she had been with her. Molly had always been an unresponsive child since she was a baby. In spite of her beautiful pink coloring, carefully preserved by country life, she was scarcely more alive than an automaton. Whatever individuality she had was so deeply buried that her mother could not discover it. Why was it? Why was she so colorless? She had been "moved about" a good deal, like many American children, according to the exigencies of the family,—to St. Louis, the Farm, the New York hotel, the New York house, Europe, Grosvenor,—a rapid succession of panoramas for one small mind to absorb. But Molly had never seemed disturbed by it. One place was as good as another,—one set of children, provided they had nice manners and were well dressed, as agreeable as any other. If she were put down in a Pasadena hotel, she found playmates, judiciously selected by Miss Joyce, of course, who supervised their games. In all the changes of scene Isabelle had been most scrupulous in her care for diet, exercises, regime, and as long as the child seemed content and physically well she had seen no harm in taking her about from scene to scene. Now Isabelle had her doubts.
The little girl came downstairs, followed by the capable Miss Joyce, who was brushing out a fold in her white broadcloth coat and arranging a curl, and looked in at her mother's room, with a pretty little smile and a gesture of the fingers she had copied from some child. "All ready, mamma,—shall we wait for you in the motor?" As she passed on, followed by Miss Joyce,—the figure of dainty young plutocracy and her mentor,—Isabelle murmured, "I wonder if it has been good for her to move about so much!"
Mrs. Price, a literal old lady, took up the remark:—
"Why, she looks healthy. Miss Joyce takes excellent care of her. I think you are very fortunate in Miss Joyce, Isabelle."
"I don't mean her health, mother!"
"She is as forward as most children of her age,—she speaks French very prettily," the grandmother protested. "She has nice manners, too."