It seems impossible to make you realize
that English is not a dead language."
"You are very rude to me!" Mrs. Cary protested, in high, quavering tones
that threatened tears. "Very rude! Beatrice, you ought to be ashamed--"
"I am not rude. I am only telling you the simple truth."
"Well, then, you are not respectful."
"Respectful!" The reiteration was accompanied with a laugh which
brought into use all the harsh, unpleasing notes in the girl's voice.
She turned away from her mother, and with one white elbow resting on
the dressing-table, began to play idly with the silver ornaments. "No,
I suppose I am not respectful," she went on calmly. "I think we are too
intimate for that, mother. We know each other too well, and have spoken
about things too plainly. People, I imagine, only retain the respect of
their fellow-creatures so long as they keep themselves and their projects
a haloed mystery. That isn't our case. There are no haloes or mysteries
between us, are there?"
"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," Mrs. Cary declared plaintively.
"There are moments, Beatrice, when I think you talk nonsense."
"I am sure you do!" An ironical smile played an instant round the small
mouth, then she went on calmly: "Let us put our personal grievances
against each other aside, mother. _Revenons a nos moutons._ You were
saying, when I interrupted you, that you were afraid of Mr. Travers. Why?"
"Why! You know as well as I do.
Pages:
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65