"You hardly went to bed at all last night; you shouldn't be sitting up," said Gertrude, throwing off her cloak; while Phyllis carefully detached the knot of tuberose from her bodice, as she delivered herself for the second time of her grievance.
Afterwards, going up to the mantelpiece, she placed the flowers in a slender Venetian vase, its crystal flecked with flakes of gold, which Darrell had given her; took the vase in her hand, and swept upstairs without a word.
"I do not know what to think about Phyllis," said Gertrude.
"You are afraid that she is too much interested in Mr. Darrell?"
"Yes."
"She does not care two straws for him," said Lucy, with the conviction of one who knows; "her vanity is hurt, but I am not sure that that will be bad for her."
"He is the sort of person to attract——" began Gertrude; but Lucy struck in—
"Why, Gerty, what are you thinking of? he must be forty at least; and Phyllis is a child."
Something in her tones recalled to Gertrude that clarion-blast of triumph, in the wonderful lyric—