When Pauline reached the Rectory dinner had already begun in the mixture of candle-light and rosy dusk that seemed there more than anything to mark Summer's instant approach, and as with flushed cheeks she took her place at table she was conscious of an atmosphere that was half disapproval, half anxiety; or was it that she, disapproving of herself, expected criticism? Positively there was an emotion of being on her defense; she felt propitiatory and apologetic; and for the first time she was sharply aware of herself and her family as two distinct facts. It was to dispel this uneasy sense of potential division that she took up her violin with a faintly exaggerated willingness, and that, instead of dreaming of Guy in a corner of the room, she played all the evening in the same spirit of wanting to please.
Her mother asked if she had enjoyed her walk, and Pauline had positively to fight with herself before she could answer lightly enough that the walk had been perfect. Why was her heart beating like this, and why did her sisters regard her so gravely? It must be her fancy, and almost defiantly she continued:
"There was no harm in my going out with Guy, was there? We've not been together at all lately."
"Why should there be any particular harm this evening?" Monica inquired.
"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 surprise. 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 behavior, 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 behavior; it was she who was rushing to meet their postulates and observations, arming herself with weapons of offense 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."