“My dear, I am speaking to you,” said Mrs. Baxter, with an air of slightly humorous dignity.
“Er—I am sorry,” murmured Maggie, and continued reading.
Mrs. Baxter put out her hand for the Bon Marché catalogue in order to drive home her sense of injury, and met Maggie’s eyes, suddenly raised to meet her own, with a curious strained look in them.
“Darling, what is the matter?”
Maggie still stared at her a moment, as if questioning both herself and the other, and finally handed the letter across with an abrupt movement.
“Read it,” she said.
It was rather a business to read it. It involved spectacles, a pushing aside of a plate, and a slight turning to catch the light. Mrs. Baxter read it, and handed it back, making three or four times the sound written as “Tut.”
“The tiresome boy!” she said querulously, but without alarm.
“What are we to do? You see, Mr. Morton thinks we ought to do something. He mentions a Mr. Cathcart.”
Mrs. Baxter reached out for the toast-rack.
“My dear, there’s nothing to be done. You know what Laurie is. It’ll only make him worse.”
Maggie looked at her uneasily.
“I wish we could do something,” she said.
“My dear, he’d have written to me— Mr. Morton, I mean—if Laurie had been really unwell. You see he only says he doesn’t attend to his work as he ought.”