It was this painfully sincere conviction that sent her to seek the oblivion of sleep, rather than any recollection of the fidelity in that which is least, enjoined upon her by her father.
For the next few days Valeria was zealous in gardening and tennis playing. She also, on two occasions, fetched volumes of Lamartine and asked her father to read aloud after dinner.
Her physical exertions sent her to bed tired out, and made her sleep soundly.
It surprised her very much when Lucilla, who never made personal remarks, said to her:
“Why don’t you go away for a time, Val? You don’t look well.”
“I’m perfectly all right. I only wish I had rather more to do, sometimes.”
Valeria looked at her elder sister. She was less intimate with her than with Flora. No one, in fact, was intimate with Lucilla. She spoke seldom, and almost always impersonally. At least, one knew that she was discreet....
Val, on impulse, spoke.
“Do you suppose—don’t be horrified, Lucilla—do you suppose Father would ever think of letting me go away and work?”
Lucilla gave no sign of being horrified.