"Mamma--"
The letter lay between them on the hall table by the study door. Her
mother put her hand over it, quick. A black, long-tailed M showed between
her forefinger and her thumb.
They looked at each other, and her mother's mouth began to pout and smile
as it used to when Papa said something improper. She took the letter and
went, with soft feet and swinging haunches like a cat carrying a mouse,
into the study. Mary stared at the shut door.
Maurice Jourdain. Maurice Jourdain. What on earth was he writing to Mamma
for?
Five minutes ago she had been quiet and happy, reading Kant's _Critique
of Pure Reason_. Now her heart beat like a hammer, staggering with its
own blows. The blood raced in her brain.