"It—it will be lonely for you when I've gone, mother," she said, smoothing the old lady's lace collar.
"Gone?" repeated Mrs. Willett. "Gone? Why, has that woman consented to go at last?"
Miss Willett shrank back. "No," she said, trembling, "but—"
"You can't marry till she does," said Mrs. Willett, gripping the arms of her chair. "Not with my consent, at any rate. Remember that. I'm not going to give way; she must."
Miss Willett said "Yes, mother," in a dutiful voice, and then, avoiding her gaze, took a few biscuits from the sideboard.
"There's a difference between strength of mind and obstinacy," continued Mrs. Willett. "It's obstinacy with her—sheer obstinacy; and I am not going to bow down to it—there's no reason why I should."
Miss Willett said "No, mother."
"If other people like to bow down to her," said Mrs. Willett, smoothing her dress over her knees, "that's their look-out. But she won't get me doing it."
She went up to bed and lay awake half the night, and, rising late next morning in consequence, took advantage of her daughter's absence to peer under the bed. The parcels had disappeared. She went downstairs, with her faded but alert old eyes watching Cecilia's every movement.
"When does Mr. Truefitt begin his holidays?" she inquired, at last.