"Of course not, Monica," and again her heart was beating furiously. "I only asked because I thought you all seemed angry with me for being a little late for dinner."
"I don't know why we should suddenly be sensitive about punctuality in this house," said Margaret.
Pauline had never thought her own white fastness offered such relief and shelter as to-night; and yet, she assured herself, nobody had really been criticizing her. It must have been entirely her fancy, that air of reproach, those insinuations of cold surprize. People in this house did not understand what it meant to be as much in love as she. It was all very well for Margaret and Monica to lay down laws for behaviour, Margaret who did not know whether she loved or not, Monica who disapproved of anything more directly emotional than a Gregorian chant. Yet they had not theorized to-night, nor had they propounded one rule of behaviour; it was she who was rushing to meet their postulates and observations, arming herself with weapons of offence before the attack had begun. Yet why had neither Monica nor Margaret, nor even her mother, come to say good-night to her? They did not understand about love, not one of them, not one of them.
"Pauline?"
It was her mother's voice outside her door, who coming in seemed perfectly herself.
"Not undressed yet? What's the matter, darling Pauline? You look quite worried, sitting there in your chair."
"I'm not worried, Mother. Really, darling, I'm not worried. I thought you were cross with me."
Now she was crying and being petted.
"I don't know why I'm crying. Oh, I'm so foolish. Why am I crying? Are you cross with me?"
"Pauline, what is the matter? Have you had a quarrel with Guy?"