Here she glanced over a shoulder toward the school-room; then toward the hall. Did she dare?
"Well, you're little yet," explained Johnnie. "But just you wait till you grow up."
"Are—are you grown-up?"—a trifle doubtfully.
"Of course, I'm grown up! Why, I'm seven." Whereat she strode up and down, hands on hips, in feeble imitation of Johnnie.
But here the inclination for further make-believe died utterly—at a point where, usually, Johnnie threw back his head with a triumphant laugh, gave a squirrel-like leap into the air (from the top of the nursery table), caught the lower branch of a tall, slim tree (the chandelier), and swung himself to and fro with joyous abandon. For Gwendolyn suddenly remembered the cruel truth borne out by the ink-line on the pier-glass. And instead of climbing upon the table, she went to stand in front of her writing-desk.
"I was seven my last birthday," she murmured, looking up at the rose-embossed calendar.
Seven, and grown-up—and yet everything was just the same!
She went to the front window and knelt on the cushioned seat. Across the river red smoke was pouring up from those chimneys on the water's edge that were assuredly a mile high. Red smoke meant that evening was approaching. Jane would enter soon. With two in the nursery, the advantage was for her who did not have to make the overtures of peace. She turned her back to the room.
Jane came. She drew the heavy curtains at the side window and busied herself in the vicinity of the bed, moving about quietly, saying not a word. Presently she went out.
Gwendolyn faced round. The bed was arranged for the night. At its head, on the small table, was a glass of milk, a sandwich, a cup of broth, a plate of cooked fruit.