Her strength, too, lay, as it always had, in
saying little, whereas Philippa's _forte_ was dialogue. But it needs two
for that. After the first greeting there came a pause, in which the
embarrassment, upon the whole, was Mrs. Tompsett-King's.
The trenchant lady had had her sailing orders, and was going to follow
them. Mr. Tompsett-King had told her that Sanchia must be led, not driven,
into Ingram's arms. "Assume the best of her, my dear friend," he had said,
"if you wish to get the best out of her. Take right intentions for
granted. It is very seldom that a woman can resist that kind of flattery.
So far as I can read your sister's mind, she has suffered from your
mother's abrupt methods. I beg of you not to repeat them. Nothing but
mischief could come of it." When Mr. Tompsett-King called her his dear
friend, she knew that he was serious.
But Sanchia's mood had not been reckoned with: Philippa was not Vicky. In
the old days, in a wonderfully harmonious household, there had been a
latent rivalry between her and all her juniors. The greatest trouble had
been with Sanchia, the deliberate. And so it was now that when the elder
warmed to her task of making bad best, she was suddenly chilled by that
old pondering and weighing which had always offended her.
Pages:
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275