The answer came from the midst of bedclothes. "It's red, you silly!" There could be no two opinions about that, but, as Theresa protested, it was not just an ordinary red, not like that of the girl who brought home the washing.
"It's not that awful orange kind, now, is it?"
"No; but I don't like it very much. It's neither one thing nor the other. It's rather what I call streaky, you know."
"Yes, I'm afraid it is. Well, it doesn't matter. I may grow out of it."
"I wish you would be quick."
"I think," said Theresa, as she buttoned her nightgown over that place where the anxious pain was felt again—"I think I've got to go downstairs."
Barefooted, she pattered across the landing and down two flights of stairs. No light was burning, for gas must be saved, and Theresa was afraid; but she went on, past the front-door, down the basement steps, past the dark kitchen which looked vast and cavernous, and so into the brilliance of the breakfast-room.
"Theresa! Bare feet!"
"I want my book for the morning," she said. "In case I wake, you know."
Her mother was in the rocking-chair, and her father, shading his eyes under his hand, was sitting at the table, writing. The shadow was still in the room.