Part 1 (2/2)
”So I am. So was mother.”
”Not when I knew her.”
”Afterwards then.” A sudden thought came to Barbara. ”Mrs. Waddington, if mother was your dearest friend why haven't you known me all this time?”
”Your mother and I lost sight of each other before you were born.”
”Mother didn't want to.”
”Nor I.”
”Mother would have hated you to think she did.”
”I never thought it. She must have known I didn't.”
”Then why--”
”Did we lose sight?”
”Yes, why? People don't, if they can help it, if they care enough. And mother cared.”
”You're a persistent little thing, aren't you? Are you trying to make out that I didn't care?”
”I'm trying to make you see that mother did.”
”Well, my dear, we both cared, but we _couldn't_ help it. We married, and our husbands didn't hit it off.”
”Didn't they? And daddy was so nice. Didn't you know how nice he was?”
”Oh, yes. I knew. My husband was nice, too, Barbara; though you mightn't think it.”
”Oh, but I do. I'm sure he is. Only I haven't seen him yet.”
”So nice. But,” said f.a.n.n.y, pursuing her own thought, ”he never made a joke in his life, and your father never _made_ anything else.”
”Daddy didn't 'make' jokes. They came to him.”
”I've seen them come. He never sent any of them away, no matter how naughty they were, or how expensive. I used to adore his jokes.... But Horatio didn't. He didn't like my adoring them, so you see--”
”I see. I wonder,” said Barbara, looking up at the portrait again, ”what he's thinking about?”
”I used to wonder.”
”But you know now?”
”Yes, I know now,” f.a.n.n.y said.
”What'll happen,” said Barbara, ”if _I_ make jokes?”
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