That night he came in, took her for a
moment in his hands, kissed her very gently on the lips, and said--
"Clare, you're not angry with me for last night?"
"No" she answered him. Then she added slowly, as though she were repeating
a part that she'd learnt, "Thank you for taking me to the play, Peter. I
was rather tired. But thank you for taking me."
He went to bed thanking God for this change in her. "I'll make her love me
just as she used to, those days on our honeymoon. God bless her."
Yes, Mrs. Rossiter was strangely altered. It all shows what one can do with
a woman when one tries. Her hostile placidity had given place to something
almost pathetic. One would have thought, had one not known that lady's
invariable assurance of movement, that she was perplexed, almost
distressed.
Peter was conscious that Clare was now as silent with her mother as she was
with him. He perceived that Mrs. Rossiter was disturbed at Clare's
reticence. He fancied that he sometimes interrupted little conversations
between the mother and the daughter the intention of which was, on Mrs.
Rossiter's part at any rate, that "Clare should tell her something." There
was no doubt at all, that Mrs. Rossiter was anxious. Even--although this
seemed impossible--she appeared to be ready to accept Peter as a friend and
ally now--now after these many weeks of hostility.
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