And now for the second time she told the fiction which she had invented about her cousin's invitation, with even greater assurance than before, and, moreover, with a little amplification this time. Along with the secret joy which she found in the telling, she felt her courage increasing at the same time. Even the possibility of being joined by her brother-in-law no longer alarmed her. She felt, too, that she had an advantage over him, because of the way in which he was in the habit of sidling up to her.
"How long are you thinking of staying in the town, then?" asked her sister-in-law.
"Two or three days; certainly no longer. And in any case, of course, I should have had to go on Monday—to the dressmaker."
Richard strummed on the keys, but Elly stood with both arms resting on the piano, gazing at her aunt with a look almost of terror.
"Whatever is the matter with you?" asked Bertha involuntarily.
"Why do you ask that?" said Elly.
"You are looking at me," said Bertha, "as queerly as though—well, as though you did not like the idea of missing your music lessons for a couple of days."
"No, it is not that," replied Elly, smiling. "But … no, I can't tell you."
"What is it, though?" asked Bertha.
"No, please, I really can't tell you."