"Well, anyhow you are doing your duty." Mary laughed a little, but her fingers, tightly holding the linen she sewed, were trembling. She felt a little breathless, as though she had just found in the possession of another something she had sought a long time. Then the instinct that made her respond to an expressed need came to her aid.
"Look here, Ursula, if you feel rather bored at the idea of being alone when Foster goes away, why not come to Anderby for a fortnight? We haven't had any visitors—anyway, young ones—for ages."
"Do you mean that? I'd love it. It's so dull when I can't play golf. Are you sure I shan't be a nuisance?"
"Of course you won't. I'd love to have you."
She would. Because Ursula was young. Anything was better than this dreary monotony of middle age—when one was only twenty-eight.
"Righto. I'll come. And, Mary, I wonder if you'd tell the others after I've gone. I should feel such an ass and they're bound to know soon."
"Of course I will."
Ursula nodded and smiled and left her, to pay her compliments to Aunt Jane.
Mary sat and watched her. Why, she wondered, had she asked her to stay? Why had she promised to tell the family that Ursula, and not she, was going to have a baby? Why did one ever tell those faded women anything? Her news would stir them lightly, as a breeze stirs withered leaves to a rustling chatter, but that would subside too, and they would forget until the next breeze blew.
Besides, why Ursula's news, when she wanted so much to give them tidings of her own? Ursula had all the luck. It wasn't as if she cared for Mary. She only looked upon her as someone useful, and staid, and a little dull.