“If it’s anybody’s fault it’s mine, Gertrude. Let the child be a child sometimes.”
She turned on him impatiently, being only too conscious of the fact that Lynette was his child, and not hers.
“How can you expect me to have any authority? And in the end the responsibility always rests with the woman.”
“Perhaps—perhaps not. Run along, old lady. I’ll come and say good night presently.”
Lynette walked off to the south door, having no desire to be kissed by Mrs. Brocklebank in the drawing-room. She turned and looked back once at her father with a demure yet inimitable twinkle of the eyes. Canterton was very much part of Lynette’s life. Her mother only dashed into it with spasmodic earnestness, and with eyes that were fussily critical. For though Gertrude Canterton always spoke of woman’s place being the home, she was so much busied with reforming other people’s homes, and setting all their social machinery in order, that she had very little leisure left for her own. A housekeeper managed the house by letting Mrs. Canterton think that she herself managed it. Miss Vance was almost wholly responsible for Lynette, and Gertrude Canterton’s periodic plunges into the domestic routine at Fernhill were like the surprise visits of an inspector of schools.
“Mrs. Brocklebank is staying the night. We have some business to discuss with regard to the Children’s Home.”
Canterton detested Mrs. Brocklebank, but he went in and shook hands with her. She was a large woman, with the look of a very serious-minded white cow. Her great point was her gravity. It was a massive and imposing edifice which you could walk round and inspect, without being able to get inside it. This building was fitted with a big clock that boomed solemnly at regular intervals, always making the same sound, and making it as though it were uttering some new and striking note.
“I see you are one of those, Mr. Canterton, who like to let children run wild.”
“I suppose I am. I’d rather my child had fine legs and a good appetite to begin with.”
His wife joined in.