While Mrs. Baxter poured out tea she addressed a remark or two to the girl, but only got back those vague inattentive murmurs that are the sign of a distracted mind; and, looking up presently with a sense of injury, noticed that Maggie was reading her letter with extraordinary diligence.
“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.