Hilda (impulsively). Oh, Mrs. Dale—
Mrs. Dale. Well?
Hilda. I’d rather sit up for you.
Mrs. Dale. Child, I’ve nothing for you to do. I shall be blocking out the tenth chapter of Winged Purposes and it won’t be ready for you till next week.
Hilda. It isn’t that—but it’s so beautiful to sit here, watching and listening, all alone in the night, and to feel that you’re in there (she points to the study-door) creating—.(Impulsively.) What do I care for sleep?
Mrs. Dale (indulgently). Child—silly child!—Yes, I should have felt so at your age—it would have been an inspiration—
Hilda (rapt). It is!
Mrs. Dale. But you must go to bed; I must have you fresh in the morning; for you’re still at the age when one is fresh in the morning! (She sighs.) The letters? (Abruptly.) Do you take notes of what you feel, Hilda—here, all alone in the night, as you say?
Hilda (shyly). I have—
Mrs. Dale (smiling). For the diary?