Читать книгу The Counterplot онлайн

9 страница из 75

However this may be, Mrs. Lane (the Doña, as her friends and family called her), standing there smiling and monumental, with the children clinging to her skirts, seemed to Teresa a symbol—of what she was not quite sure. Maternity? No, not exactly; but it was something connected with maternity.

The children, having said their say, made for the harbour of their own little town—to wit, the nursery—where, over buns, and honey, and chocolate cake, they would tell their traveller’s tales; and the Doña bore down slowly upon Teresa and sank heavily into a basket chair. She raised her lorgnette and gazed at her daughter critically.

“Teresa,” she said, in her slow, rather guttural voice, “why do you so love that old skirt? But I warn you, it is going to the very next jumble sale of Mrs. Moore.”

Teresa smiled quite amicably.

“Why can’t you let Concha’s elegance do for us both?” she asked.

So toneless and muted was Teresa’s voice that it was generally impossible to deduce from it, as also from her rather weary impassive face, of what emotion her remarks were the expression.