The pity, which for a moment had flickered in the girl's heart when she saw how very weak her mother really was, did not last long enough to warm into a flame. "Ma Mere," she said petulantly, "I cannot understand why you never speak of your husband as my father." There was no response, only a tightening of the woman's lips as though she were making an effort to not tell the truth.
"Moreover," Gwyn went on, not noticing the change in her mother's manner, "why should Harold's wishes be put above mine? Perhaps you do not realize that he has become interested, to what degree I do not know, but nevertheless really interested, in the granddaughter of your servants on the farm."
Mrs. Poindexter-Jones turned toward the girl. There was not in her eyes the flash of indignation which Gwynette had expected, only surprise and perhaps inquiry. "Is that true?" Then, after a meditative moment the woman concluded, "Fate does strange things. What was it they called her?"
Gwyn held herself proudly erect. At least she had been sure that her mother would have sided with her in denouncing Harold's plan to become a farmer under the direction of Silas Warner. She hurried on to impart the information without telling the name of the girl whom she so disliked, although without reason.
"I recall now," was the woman's remark. "Jenny Warner. Jeanette was her name and yours was Gwynette."
Angrily her companion put in, "Ma Mere, did you hear me say that Harold has decided to become a farmer, a mere laborer, when you had planned that he should become a diplomat or something like that?"
"Yes, I heard." The woman leaned back wearily. "My boy wrote me that was why he wanted to stay here, although he would give up his own wishes if they did not accord with mine." Then she added, with an almost pensive smile on her thin lips, "He is more dutiful than my daughter is, one might think."
Gwynette flung herself about in the chair impatiently. "Harold knows you will do everything to please him and nothing to please me."
The woman's eyes narrowed as she looked at the hard, selfish face which nevertheless was beautiful in a cold way.
The woman seemed to be making an effort to speak calmly. "Gwynette," she said at last, "we will call this unpleasant interview at an end. The fault probably is mine. Without doubt I do favor Harold. He is very like his father, and I seem to feel that Harold cares more for me than you do." She put up a protesting hand. "Don't answer me, please. I am very tired. You may go now."