‘He does not mind. He does not like Walter, but he does not mind.’
Walter took me to see his mother. She looked old to be his mother;
much older than Cousin Delia. She had light blue eyes like his,
and fair hair. Her hair was not so grey as Cousin Delia’s, but
her face was much more lined. She was small, and like a bird,
with quick, nervous movements. She was dressed in purple; a purple
silk bodice, with a high collar, up round her chin. She was very
neat and slim, and her face was pink, like a soft apple.
She lived in a high house, with steep, dark stairs. There were
Indian things in the room; weapons, and powder horns, and inlaid
tables. Walter’s grandfather had been in India; he was an Indian
merchant who traded in rice. There were water-colours on the
walls, of cottages, and churches in green trees; old-fashioned,
rather charming pictures, but the room was dark all the same;
the curtains were dark and heavy, and there was too much furniture;
I felt very much a stranger in that room.
Mrs. Sebright kissed me in a fluttering, half-frightened way.
‘My dear, I am so glad to meet you,’ she said. ‘Walter has talked
to me often about you. I should like to have seen you before.’
She made me sit down in a big chair; it had a chintz cover with
purplish flowers on it; faded, dull sort of flowers.
‘I must look at you,’ she said, ‘you must let me look at you,
my dear!’
She put on her spectacles, and looked at me. It was natural that
she should want to look, but I felt embarrassed.
‘Yes, you are very pretty, very pretty indeed! Walter told me
so. Walter is always right.’
She gave a little nervous laugh.
‘We must make friends now,’ she said; ‘you see, it seems so strange
to me, that I do not know you at all. Walter has been such a
good son to me, such a devoted son, and good sons make good husbands,
so they say. . . . I am sure my Walter will. You are a fortunate
young lady, my dear, though I say it, and I am sure you will
do your best to deserve him.’
I said I hoped I should. I liked her for thinking so much of
Walter; she was so naive, and so single-hearted; the attitude
of my friends would have been inconceivable to her.
And I thought:
‘She knows him much better than they do, after all.’
She said:
‘You must tell me all about yourself. Your parents are dead,
I believe?’
I told her that my father was dead, and my mother had married
again.
‘Poor dear, poor dear, so you were all alone?’