George Boult. If only she was sure it might be best for the children.
"I wonder what's to become of me while you're having your interesting
interview with Scrooge?" Bessie said at dinner-time. "It's raining, so I
can't go out for a walk."
"I am going for one," Mrs. Day said, having decided on that course at the
instant of announcing the intention.
"But I thought Scrooge was coming?"
"I know. I can't see him. I really can't. You see him for me, Bessie."
"Really, mama, how absurd! Is the old man wanting to marry me? Are you to
have the billing and cooing by proxy?"
There was no mistake about it, adversity had not improved Bessie; her
mother had to admit to herself that she was even sometimes vulgar. "You
might have spared me that, I think, Bessie," poor Mrs. Day said. She was
deeply offended and hurt. She would not wait to finish her dinner, but
went down into the shop and busied herself there till Mr. Pretty had put
the shutters up. Then she dressed herself in the widow's bonnet she still
wore, the shabby silk mantle with its deep border of crape, the black
gloves so much the worse for wear, and saying no further word to Bessie
went out.
"Of course I know where she's gone," said Bessie to Emily, her unfailing
confidante.
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