“I’ll tell you.” But before going on to relate her impressions of the evening, Mrs. Dodge had a deterrent thought. She stood silent a moment, then went to the door and called softly upward, “Lily?”
“Yes, Mamma. I’m just going up to bed,” Lily said, diplomatically, and proceeded upon her way as her mother closed the library door.
Lily wondered if they were talking about her, though she was unable to see how giving something a fair trial could have anything to do with her. She could no longer hear the words her parents were uttering, though the sound of their voices still came to her in the upper hall, and it was evident that they were beginning a spirited discussion. Her father’s voice sounded protestive, her mother’s denunciatory, and Lily decided that they probably weren’t talking about her at all. She was in high spirits and laughed to herself over their earnestness—older people got excited and argued so over such dull matters, she thought. It would be a terrible thing ever to get middle-aged like that!
She never would be like that, she said to herself as she undressed. Never! Such a thing couldn’t happen. “To be like Mamma and not care much what you wear, or anything, and with a good dry old husband at home—and all so dusty and musty and settled—and not able to look at another man—I could never in the world be like that! Ada Corey could, but I couldn’t. I’d a thousand times rather die!”
And with the thought of Ada she remembered Ada’s rather enigmatic remarks to her in the cloakroom and the queer look Ada had given her. The recollection of that oddly sharp look disturbed her, and, when she had gone to bed, kept her awhile from sleeping. There had been something appealing in that look, too, something excitedly reticent, as of strange knowledge withheld, and yet something humble and questing. And what in the world had she meant by saying, “I’m sorry!” as she ran out of the room.
Lily had to give it up, at least for that night, but she made up her mind to call Ada on the telephone early in the morning and reproach her for keeping people awake by suddenly becoming mysterious. Of course, though, the explanation would be simple, and the mystery would turn out to be nothing of any importance. Ada never knew any exciting secrets and probably hadn’t intended to be mysterious at all. Having come to this conclusion, Lily let her thoughts go where they wanted to go, though they were not so much thoughts as pictures and dreamy echoes of sounds—pictures of dark and tender eyes bent devotedly upon hers, dreamy echoes of a mellow voice murmuring fond things to the lilting accompaniment of far-away dance music. So, finally, she slept, and slept smiling.
A coloured maid tapped at her door in the morning, and, being bidden to enter, came in and brought to Lily’s bedside a note addressed in Ada’s hand.
“Must been lef’ here in the night-time, Miss Lily, or else awful early this morn’. It was stickin’ under the front door when I went to bring in the newspaper.”
Lily read the note.
It was the only thing we could do, Lily, to keep my people from guessing what was really going on. We didn’t mean to let it go on so long, but we had to wait until we could save up enough to start with. Of course, I know everybody will say I’m hopelessly mad and reckless, and my family will be terribly upset. I told you I wished I were like you. If it were you, you could get away with a thing like this and after a day or so nobody would think anything about it, but I know how awful and different it will seem to everybody because I’m the one that does it!