He laid her back among the pillows then. And she turned her face to her mother.
"Can't you sleep, darling?—And don't dream!"
"Well, I'm pretty tired."
"We know what a hard long night it was."
"Oh, I'm so glad we're going back to Johnnie Blake's, moth-er. 'Cause, oh, I'm tired of pretending!"
"Of pretending," said her father. "Ah, yes."
Her mother nodded at him. "I'm tired of pretending, too," she said in a low voice.
Gwendolyn looked pleased. "I didn't know you ever pretended," she said. "Well, of course, you know that real things are so much nicer—"
"Ah, yes, my little girl!" It was her father. His voice trembled.
"Real grass,"—she smiled up at him—"and real trees, and real people." After that, for a while, she gave herself over to thinking. How wonderful that one single night could bring about the changes for which she had so longed!—the living in the country; the eating at the grown-up table, and having no governess.