And one of the most pathetic subjects was that of her relations
with her mother. "If Brigit would only come back and live here again,"
he said over and over again, "like other fellows' sisters. Things are so
much pleasanter when she is here."
"I'm here, Tommy darling," she told him a hundred times, but he only
shook his head and frowned gently. "You are very nice, and I like your
hands, because they are cool and dry, but you are not Bicky. Bicky is
beautiful."
His mother, on the contrary, the child always recognised, and his manner
to her was almost protecting.
"Don't cry, mother," he would say. "I'm not so bad, really I'm not. You
had better go and lie down, or you will not look pretty to-night."
His idea of evenings was, of course, of a time when mothers must look
their best at any cost, and when no mother ever stayed upstairs.
Every evening, therefore, he could not rest until Lady Kingsmead had
gone "to dress."
Brigit had never known how much the little fellow noticed the details
of dress, and so on, but now she learned, for his remarks about his
mother usually took the form of appreciation or dislike of some
particular toilette.
"Wear pink, mother--it suits you best--and pearls.
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