Part 9 (1/2)
”Hardly,” said Moya, flus.h.i.+ng. ”Father does not care for descriptions, and the woods are an old story to him.”
Mrs. Bogardus placed her hands on the girl's shoulders and gave her one of her infrequent, ceremonious kisses, which, like her finest smile, she kept for occasions too nice for words.
IX
THE POWER OF WEAKNESS
Christine followed her mother to their room, and the two faced each other a moment in pale silence.
Mrs. Bogardus spoke first. ”What does this mean?”--her breath came short, perhaps from climbing the stairs. She was a large woman.
”What does what mean? I don't understand you, mother.”
”Ah, child, don't repulse me! Twice you and Moya have nearly quarreled about those men. Why were you so rude to her? Why did you behave so about her letter?”
”Paul is so intolerant! And the airs he puts on! If he is my own brother I must say he's an awful prig about other men.”
”We are not discussing Paul. That is not the question now. Have you anything to tell me, Christine?”
”To tell you?--about what, mother?” Christine spoke lower.
”You know what I mean. Which of them is it? Is it Banks?--don't say it is Banks!”
”Mother, how can I say anything when you begin like that?”
”Have you any idea what sort of a man Banks Bowen really is? His father supports him entirely--six years now, ever since he left the law school.
He does nothing, never will do anything. He has no will or purpose in life, except about trifles like this hunting-trip. As far as I can see he is without common sense.”
Christine stood by the dressing-table pleating the cover-frilling with her small fingers that were loaded with rings. She pinched the folds hard and let them go. ”Why did no one ever say these things before?”
”We don't say things about the sons of our friends, unless we are compelled to. They were implied in every way possible. When have I asked Banks Bowen to the house except when everybody was asked! I would never in the world have come out in Mr. Borland's car if I had known the Bowens were to be of the party.”
”That made no difference,” said Christine loftily.
”It was all settled before then, was it?”
”Have I said it was settled, mother? He asked me if I could ever care for him; and I said that I did--a little. Why shouldn't I? He does what I like a man to do. I don't enjoy people who have wills and purposes. It may be very horrid of me, but I wouldn't be in Moya's place for worlds.”
”You poor child! You poor, unhappy child!”
”Why am I unhappy? Has Paul added so much to our income since he left college?”
”Paul does not make money; neither does he selfishly waste it. He has a conscience in his use of what he has.”
”I don't see what conscience has to do with it. When it is gone it's gone.”