" With that brief
explanation she reclined luxuriously on the soft sofa-cushions,
swinging one of her balls of wool to and fro above her head, and
looking at it lazily as she lay back. "I have a remark to make,
Horace," she went on, when the door had closed on her messenger.
"It is only people in our rank of life who get good servants. Did
you notice? Nothing upsets that man's temper. A servant in a poor
family should have been impudent; a maid-of-all-work would have
wondered when I was going to know my own mind." The man returned
with the embroidery. This time she received him graciously; she
dismissed him with her thanks. "Have you seen your mother lately,
Horace?" she asked, suddenly sitting up and busying herself with
her work.
"I saw her yesterday," Horace answered.
"She understands, I hope, that I am not well enough to call on
her? She is not offended with me?"
Horace recovered his serenity. The deference to his mother
implied in Mercy's questions gently flattered his self-esteem. He
resumed his place on the sofa.
"Offended with you!" he answered, smiling." My dear Grace, she
sends you her love. And, more than that, she has a wedding
present for you.
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