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Contrasts both attract and repel.

Mrs Sarah, standing there with her face all pleasant crinkles as she smiled, and her black eyes very bright, met the crisis and Mrs St. George with impartial solidity. It is probable that she was instantly aware of a clashing of contrasts. She knew at once that she was not going to like Mrs St. George any more than Mrs St. George was going to like Mrs Sarah. It was ice and fire, air and water, cold blood and warm blood, white meat and red. No two women could have been more different, and more antipathetic, and Mrs Sarah, realizing an intuitive dislike, suppressed that most dangerous feeling.

She smiled.

“Please sit down.”

Mrs St. George moved to the sofa. She was very deliberate. She had taken stock of Mrs Sarah, as a stoutish, short, broad-faced woman with a sleek black head, a bosom, and a humorous and rather spreading nose. Yes, rather a coarse-fibred person, but, like the daughter downstairs—betraying no embarrassment. Mrs St. George had expected it to be otherwise, and to find these people saucily on the defensive, or eager to please. She was in a hurry with her prejudices, but behind these prejudices—and whipping them forward—was her anger wielding a scourge.

There was a pause, a significant pause, like a deep drawing of the breath after a plunge into cold water. Mrs Sarah, taking one of the arm-chairs, was very conscious of the chilliness of the atmosphere, and of the peculiar bright blueness of Mrs St. George’s eyes. And that mouth, and those regular and cold features, and the polished tip of that narrow nose! Mrs Sarah knew the type. It had hands that clutched. It was morality personified.

But Mrs Sarah continued to smile, and that was to her advantage.

She said—“Are we to congratulate each other?”

Her way of beginning was unexpected. She began with humour, and a touch of roguishness, as a woman of the world might be expected to open such a discussion. She saw a momentary stare of surprise in the blue eyes. Obviously, Mrs St. George had not expected such a question. And what did it suggest—familiarity, an impertinent and challenging friendliness, irony, stupidity?

She replied with another question.

“Would you mind telling me how long my son and your daughter had known each other—? You see—.”

Mrs Sarah sat with folded hands.

“Oh,—about a week—I think.”

Mrs St. George appeared to respond with a slight movement of the head.

“As I expected. Do you mind—if I am perfectly frank with you,—Mrs Greenwood?”

“As mother to mother!”

“If you care to put it that way. Obviously—my son—who is very young—.”

“The same age as my daughter—.”

“But—then—I may observe—that a girl of twenty-four—.”

“I agree. My daughter manages her own affairs—.”

“And this affair—!”

Mrs Sarah made a little grimace.

“Are we—going to say—such things to each other? Wouldn’t it be better—?”

She saw Mrs St. George’s lips retract slightly in a smile that was not a smile.

“I had no desire to stress the obvious. My son—was not frank with me. The first time—. Naturally, one was moved to infer—.”

“Yes,—one is. I quite understand. But—as a matter of fact, Mrs St. George,—I might have interfered, and I did not. Please wait a moment. I happen to be rather fond of my daughter. She’s got a lot of character. No,—she’s not—what you might infer. Appearances—. I keep a shop. I do pretty well. My girls have been well educated. We respect ourselves.”

She looked straight at Mrs St. George with a kind of imperturbable good humour, and Mrs St. George looked out of the window. She had met the unexpected. She was up against a solidity, a common sense, a humorous wisdom that met and resisted her prejudices. She was more angry than ever, and her anger was being balked. She was having to repress it in the presence of this stout and smirking person who seemed to assume an attitude of rightness. And Mrs St. George had lived with the impression that her own rightness was the only rightness.

She said—“But isn’t a mother bound to consider—?”

Mrs Sarah took her up.

“Of course. It’s my daughter and your son. My daughter works for her living. I should like to know—whether your son—?”

They crossed glances.

“My son hasn’t a penny.”

“You misunderstand me. The question is—can he earn a living? If you are looking at it as a business proposition—.”

Mrs St. George thought she saw an unguarded flank.

“That’s inconceivable. I am a woman of property. Let us be perfectly frank. The property is mine for life. If I choose to allow my son—.”

Mrs Sarah smiled.

“Can’t we ignore the property? You see, Mrs St. George, you don’t know my daughter. She’s rather an independent little person. She didn’t marry your son—for an allowance. Believe me—that’s true. She married him because she wanted to, and because he wanted her to. That’s the human bedrock. I don’t know that I am so pleased about it as I might be. But—we mothers—.”

She paused. She had put the hot metal of the supreme test into Mrs St. George’s hand. Were they going to be mothers in the gracious, human sense, or were they going to spit at each other like a couple of cats on a wall? The decision was with Mrs St. George. She had but to make a magnanimous gesture, and Mrs Sarah would reply to that gesture. She was not expecting Mrs St. George to be pleased about the marriage, or to pretend that she was pleased, but only to make the best of it, and behave like a woman of sense. She was ready to allow Cardigan Square its prejudices; she had a respect for all that Cardigan Square was supposed to stand for, but Vernor Street was not without its traditions.

She waited. While sitting on the sofa Mrs St. George had pulled off her gloves, and Mrs Sarah saw that she was proposing to put them on again.

“Perhaps you would like to see Kitty?”

And then Mrs St. George, still looking out of the window, let her anger get the better of her.

“Is it—necessary?”

She had done the unpardonable thing. She had sneered. She had let her venom escape, and Mrs Sarah, with all the douceness and patience and good humour gone from her face, got up from her chair.

“Yes,—it is necessary. I insist on your seeing my daughter.”

She went to the door, opened it, and closed it with a kind of restrained emphasis. Mrs St. George heard her calling—“Kitty,—I want you.”