Clotilde flew into a rage, crying, “How dare you lay claim to my children! I am their mother! This is a Godless house!” She accused. Restlessness, then, was the trouble, simple restlessness: home bored her. In the end, resolution triumphed, as it was sure to do, over the weaker emotions, and he laughed at his fears. ’ ‘You see, I am of them,’ she said seriously, ‘but not with them—yet. I think it inadvisable—I don’t want an intimacy to spring up between you and a man of that type. And, mind, it's for his sister, Lady Trafford. You’re all such good cooks.
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