“Hold your tongue, girl! Do I not know my duty as a mother? You’ll marry whom I choose.”
“Then you refuse to give your consent?” I said with some heat.
Her manner changed cunningly.
“I do not say that. All I desire is to know you better. Will you come and have dinner with me some Sunday evening?”
After all, she was my belle-mère. I consented, and Anastasia seemed relieved. She promised to write and give us a date. Then I shook hands with her; Anastasia pecked at her in the French fashion, and there was, to some appearance, a little family reconciliation.
“Perhaps the old lady’s not so bad, after all,” I suggested; but Anastasia was sceptical.
“I do not trust her. She have some ruse. We must wait and see.”
That was a memorable day; for on reaching home I felt the sudden spur of inspiration, and sitting down before the ramshackle typewriter, I headed up a clean sheet:
THE GREAT QUIETUS
A Novel