Rosalind placed her on a swelling, billowy, black and gold chair, piled cushions behind her shoulders, made her lie back at an obtuse angle, a grey, lank, elderly figure, strange in that opulent setting, her long dusty black feet stretched out before her on the golden carpet.
Desperately uncomfortable and angular Rosalind made you feel, petting you and purring over you and calling you "mother dear," with that glint always behind her golden-brown eyes which showed that she was up to no good, that she knew you hated her and was only leading you on that she might strike her claws into you the deeper. The great beautiful cat: that was what Rosalind was. You didn't trust her for a moment.
She was pouring out tea.
"Lemon? But how dreadfully stupid of me! I'd forgotten you take milk ... oh yes, and sugar...."
She rang, and ordered sugar. Mothers take it; not the mothers of Rosalind's world, but mothers' meetings, and school treats, and mothers-in-law up from the seaside.
"Are you up for shopping? How thrilling! Where have you been?... Oh, High Street. Did you find anything there?"
Mrs. Hilary knew that Rosalind would see her off, hung over with dozens of parcels, and despise them, knowing that if they were so many they must also be cheap.
"Oh, there's not much to be got there, of course," she said. "I got a few little things—chiefly for my mother to give away in the parish. She likes to have things...."
"But how noble of you both! I'm afraid I never rise to that. It's all I can manage to give presents to myself and nearest rellies. And you came up to town just to get presents for the parish! You're wonderful, mother!"
"Oh, I take a day in town now and then. Why not? Everyone does."