She had completely forgotten them; for a space they had
utterly ceased to exist for her.
IV
"You've been out, Sophia?" said Mrs. Baines in the parlour,
questioningly. Sophia had taken off her hat and mantle hurriedly
in the cutting-out room, for she was in danger of being late for
tea; but her hair and face showed traces of the March breeze. Mrs.
Baines, whose stoutness seemed to increase, sat in the rocking-
chair with a number of The Sunday at Home in her hand. Tea was
set.
"Yes, mother. I called to see Miss Chetwynd."
"I wish you'd tell me when you are going out."
"I looked all over for you before I started."
"No, you didn't, for I haven't stirred from this room since four
o'clock. ... You should not say things like that," Mrs. Baines
added in a gentler tone.
Mrs. Baines had suffered much that day. She knew that she was in
an irritable, nervous state, and therefore she said to herself, in
her quality of wise woman, "I must watch myself. I mustn't let
myself go." And she thought how reasonable she was. She did not
guess that all her gestures betrayed her; nor did it occur to her
that few things are more galling than the spectacle of a person,
actuated by lofty motives, obviously trying to be kind and patient
under what he considers to be extreme provocation.
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