Clare lifted an opened parcel from the table. Alwynne recognised it and beamed. So Clare was pleased!
"If I tease with needles," she smoothed the paper and began to straighten the little heap of knotted string, "it's because you annoy me so often. Why did you send me this, Alwynne?"
She shrugged her shoulders.
"It was your birthday."
"I hate birthdays."
"I know." She spoke flatly, a lump in her throat. She might have known and saved herself her trouble and her pleasure.... She thought of the weeks of careful work and her delight in it; of the little sacrifices; the early rising; the walks with Roger curtailed and foregone.... Everybody had admired it, even Elsbeth had been sure that Clare would be charmed.... But Clare was angry.... Perhaps it was only that Clare did not understand.... She roused herself.
"Clare, it's different. Don't you remember?"
Clare gave no sign. She had disentangled the string and was retying it with elaborate care. Alwynne spoke with eyes fixed upon the dexterous fingers—
"You challenged me, don't you remember, Clare? When Marion showed us the things she was making for her sister's trousseau? And you said, would I ever have the patience, let alone my clumsy fingers? And I said I could, and you said you would wear all I made. And you did laugh at me so. So I thought I'd surprise you, and Elsbeth taught me the pillow-lace, and I was frightfully careful. It's taken months and months, and you love lace, and oh, Clare! I thought you would be a little bit pleased."
Her lip quivered; she was very childlike in her eagerness and disappointment.