Nigel glanced over the top of
his Times.
"I may as well tell you that it would not do at all," he put in.
"Why--why not?" exclaimed Rosalie, aghast.
"Americans don't do in English society," slightingly.
"But they are coming over so much. They like London so--all Americans
like London."
"Do they?" with a drawl which made Rosalie blush until the tears started
to her eyes. "I am afraid the sentiment is scarcely mutual."
Rosalie turned and fled from the room. She turned and fled because she
realised that she should burst out crying if she waited to hear another
word, and she realised that of late she seemed always to be bursting out
crying before one or the other of those two. She could not help it. They
always seemed to be implying something slighting or scathing. They were
always putting her in the wrong and hurting her feelings.
The day was damp and chill, but she put on her hat and ran out into the
park. She went down the avenue and turned into a coppice. There, among
the wet bracken, she sank down on the mossy trunk of a fallen tree and
huddled herself in a small heap, her head on her arms, actually wailing.
"Oh, mother! Oh, mother!" she cried hysterically. "Oh, I do wish you
would come.
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