“Thinks too much—not enough to do? Why, isn’t she my wife? What should she do, except give orders to the servants and enjoy herself? I don’t want her to do anything!”
“Then you mustn’t be surprised,” said her mother, “if she comes off to me and draws lace.”
“What? If she—what?”
“If she finds something to do for herself.”
“But she’s always busy—rushing about, with a thousand things to—! That’s one reason why I was glad to have her get away: the only reason. She looked fagged to death. And you say she hasn’t anything to do!”
“Nothing with her head. Only her arms and legs—and nerves. For Lucia that’s not enough. If her head isn’t busied, it gets away from her, and——”
“You tell her to come down here,” broke in John Gwynne suddenly. “Please! Tell her to come down here, and——”
Lucia appeared in the door. There were two smudges on her nose. “I simply can’t get that wretched”—she began: then, with a gasp, “Oh! John! Why—why——”
“Hello, little girl!” John caught her, smudges and all, half way across the room. Mrs. Loring vanished. “Are you—glad to see me?”
Lucia’s lips were buried somewhere about his ear. “But—I—I—yes,” she murmured with difficulty. “I—was trying to draw lace.”