she had noted that Laura was determined to talk and was not unwilling to permit her to exercise this desire—You were speaking of Consuelo.
I just can't think what the world's coming to, Laura continued. When we were young girls I don't think we ever raised problems for our parents.
Don't be ridiculous, Laura. You're only thirty six yourself at this minute.
You know very well what I mean, Campaspe. Consuelo is ten.
The only sign of impatience Campaspe betrayed was a nervous tapping of her foot on the rug.
She's too young to be really young, she remarked cryptically.
That's just it, Campaspe: she's ages older than I am. Were we like that?
Like what, Laura?
Laura gave no indication that she had heard this query. She lifted a spray of freesia from a green glass vase on the tea-table and held it to her nostrils as she murmured, It's just too awful!
What has she done?
It isn't that she's done anything, at least not yet, at least not much of anything. It is, Laura wailed, the things she thinks, the things she says.
You might let her talk with Basil. He hasn't a single idea in his head that couldn't be found in a novel by Frances Hodgson Burnett. I think I'll have a langue de chat.
Now Campaspe, Laura pleaded, passing the
