The adopted mother’s thoughts reverted painfully to the little white room upstairs. She had meant her half-hour with Tina to leave the girl with thoughts as fragrant as the flowers she was to find beside her when she woke. And now—.
Delia started up from her musing. There was a step on the stair—Charlotte coming down through the silent house. Delia rose with a vague impulse of escape: she felt that she could not face her cousin’s eyes. She turned the corner of the verandah, hoping to find the shutters of the dining-room unlatched, and to slip away unnoticed to her room; but in a moment Charlotte was beside her.
“Delia!”
“Ah, it’s you? I was going up to bed.” For the life of her Delia could not keep an edge of hardness from her voice.
“Yes: it’s late. You must be very tired.” Charlotte paused; her own voice was strained and painful.
“I am tired,” Delia acknowledged.
In the moonlit hush the other went up to her, laying a timid touch on her arm.
“Not till you’ve seen Tina.”
Delia stiffened. “Tina? But it’s late! Isn’t she sleeping? I thought you’d stay with her until—”
“I don’t know if she’s sleeping.” Charlotte paused. “I haven’t been in—but there’s a light under her door.”