CHAPTER XII
"All I can say is, I think Daisy ought to go. One can’t always do just what one wants to do—not in this world, at any rate!"
Mrs. Bunting did not seem to be addressing anyone in particular, though both her husband and her stepdaughter were in the room. She was standing by the table, staring straight before her, and as she spoke she avoided looking at either Bunting or Daisy. There was in her voice a tone of cross decision, of thin finality, with which they were both acquainted, and to which each listener knew the other would have to bow.
There was silence for a moment, then Daisy broke out passionately, "I don’t see why I should go if I don’t want to!" she cried. "You’ll allow I’ve been useful to you, Ellen? ’Tisn’t even as if you was quite well"
"I am quite well—perfectly well!" snapped out Mrs. Bunting, and she turned her pale, drawn face, and looked angrily at her stepdaughter.
"’Tain’t often I has a chance of being with you and father." There were tears in Daisy’s voice, and Bunting glanced deprecatingly at his wife.
An invitation had come to Daisy—an invitation from her own dead mother’s sister, who was housekeeper in a big house in Belgrave Square. "The family" had gone
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