"You needn't be sorry for me. You're sorry and half ashamed. Why? Why? Why?" She held in her voice, and spoke with a breaking strain in it. "And I resent being pitied. Why, as soon as I knew anything, I was trying to decide what I should be when I grew up." Mrs. Morton was propitiatory. "It was very sweet and brave of you, my dear." "No, it was just as natural as eating. And if I were the wife of Croesus, my daughters should have professions." She had a vision of those daughters: they were bright and eager, and they were her own, and for a moment the sight of them matured her impulsive and intolerant youth. She warmed to them: she felt a spreading as of wings, a softening of all her being, and her hands and lips were quieted and strong. She laughed as water laughs, trickling through the moss. She smiled from one end of the table to the other. "I'm sorry I get so vehement," she said. "I can't help it. I hope I wasn't rude." An apology from Theresa was almost more alarming than a scolding. "No, no, dear, I quite understand," Mrs. Morton said in haste, while Basil smiled slowly, a little stiffly, conquering uneasiness with love. In the smoking-room, Theresa sat down emphatically and spoke with great decision. "I'm horrid to your mother," she said. "You are not very nice." "She raises the devil in me!" "Theresa!" "It's true. I wanted to throw the wine-glasses about, I wanted to dance on the table. She always makes me feel like that. What am I to do? How are we to live peaceably together?" "My mother never quarrels with anyone." "If she only would! Doesn't she worry you?" "Not at all." "Not when she tells you what you think?" "Why should I mind that?" "Oh, I can't explain! I'm afraid you're rather like her!" She looked up at a portrait on the wall. "I like your father. He knows just how I feel, and he would have liked me. Are you angry with me?" He passed a hand across his eyes. "No, dear." "Are you ashamed?" "No, darling." "What is it, then?" "I love you." "Does it hurt so much?" she whispered softly. "Sometimes." "Oh, dear. Would you like to do without me?" "Theresa! Theresa!" "Basil," she said, "if you'll love me very much, I'll try to cultivate patience, though I look upon it as a sin. And I hate the intrusion of qualities that will make me different. That's not self-satisfaction--it's love of an old friend!" He returned to his old thought. "Theresa, what have you been doing with yourself all these years? You talk like a child." "I've been making up stories. That doesn't give you time to grow up. Does it matter? Shall I try to grow?" She looked at him with serious eyes, but there was a betraying twist to her lips. "My one anxiety is to oblige." He made a gesture of deprecation, bewilderment and love, and she jumped up with an energy that spurned her foolishness. "Let's get to work," she said. "Where are the plans?"