Or shall I do it for you?"
Alfred had been lounging in the shadowed corner against
a heap of old magazines tied in bundles. He sprang
up now and cleared the chair, but his sister declined
it with a gesture. Her small figure had straightened
itself into a kind of haughty rigidity.
"There has been so much to do, mamma," she explained,
in a clear, cool voice. "We have had hundreds of things
to buy and to arrange about. All the responsibility for the
housekeeping rests upon me--and Alfred has his studio to do.
But of course we should have looked in upon you sooner--and
much oftener--if we had thought you wanted us. But really,
when we came to you, the very day after our return,
it was impossible for us to pretend that you were glad
to see us."
"Oh, I was glad enough," Mrs. Dabney made answer,
mechanically. "Why shouldn't I be glad? And why should
you think I wasn't glad? Did you expect me to shout and dance?"
"But you said you wouldn't come to see us in Ovington Square,"
Alfred reminded her.
"That's different," she declared. "What would I be doing
in Ovington Square? It's all right for you to be there.
I hope you'll be happy there. But it wouldn't add anything
to your happiness to have me there; it would be quite
the other way about. I know that, if you DON'T. This is
my place, here, and I intend to stick to it!"
Julia's bright eyes, scanning the apathetic, stubborn
maternal countenance, hardened beyond their wont.
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