"You knew them a month ago."
"Oh, yes; then it was for Mr. Travers' sake. But now--"
"Now things are the same as they were then. I--I can't leave off what
I have begun."
She had gone over to the piano and, opening it, sat down and began to
play a few disjointed bars. Mrs. Cary, who watched the lovely face
with what is sometimes called a mother's pride, and which is sometimes
no more than the satisfaction of a merchant with salable goods, saw
something which made her sit bolt upright in her comfortable chair. A
tear rolled down the smooth cheek turned toward her--a single tear,
which splashed on the white hand resting on the keys. That was all,
but it was enough. With a jingle of gold bracelets and a rustle of
silk, Mrs. Cary struggled to her feet and came and stood by her
daughter, her heavy hand clasping her by the shoulder.
"Beaty!" she said stupidly. "Are you--crying?"
Beatrice turned on the music-stool and looked her mother calmly in the
face. There was not a trace of emotion in the clear, steady eyes.
"I--crying?" she said. "What should have made you think that? Have you
ever seen me cry?"
"No, never. I couldn't understand. You are all right?"
"Perfectly all right, thank you. Hadn't you better see about the tea?"
Mrs. Cary heaved a sigh of relief and satisfaction.
"Of course. How thoughtful you can be, my dear! The gentlemen may be
back any moment."
She sailed heavily across the room, on her way passing the glass doors
which opened on to the verandah.
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