Caroline opened her letter when she was undressed.
It was from Rupert Haverford—a tardy answer to the few lines she had sent him. Nothing could have been colder than this letter.
Though he made no definite expression of objection, Caroline felt that he was sharply annoyed at what she had done. This fact annoyed her in its turn.
"So Mrs. Brenton was right," she said to herself, "and he is angry. It is very unreasonable and rather absurd! I suppose he expects everybody to give him the obedience of slaves, that any sort of independence is objectionable to him. Well, he is mistaken as far as I am concerned. It is my business to be independent, to think and act for myself, and I am assuredly not going to throw up this work just to please Mr. Haverford."
She read the letter through twice.
"He makes no mention of his mother this time," she mused, and her look took a smile that was half a sneer. "Perhaps it vexes him that I should be with one of his friends," was her next thought. "After all, he is Octavia Baynhurst's son, so there must be a good deal of objectionable element in his composition."
She made up the fire quietly, and then sat staring into it till a late hour.
This letter not only annoyed her, it disquieted her. She realized in this moment that she was changing, that the innumerable new sensations through which she was passing had taken from her altogether that kind of sullenness, that apathy that had fallen upon her like a cloak during her stay with Mrs. Baynhurst.
As a school-girl she had been very high-spirited, and even intolerant of restriction; it was wonderful, all things considered, that she had not been called upon to suffer for her strong will, her hot temper, and her defiant spirit. She was very grateful now to the woman who had guarded her and trained her all those years.
True, there had been no pretence of affection, softness, or gentle thought, but equally there had been no unnecessary repression, no hardship.