"You’re a regular old devil!" she had told him. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself!"
"You’re a devil yourself!" he had answered. "A young devil, and a dangerous one, too. You could teach me a trick or two, I dare say!"
Then she had thrown a piece of bread at him, and he had sprung up and smothered her in a napkin, almost upsetting her chair backward, and she had given his necktie a terrific pull. She did so like this sort of thing!
She had a familiar and delightful feeling now toward Polly, such as she had so often felt toward teachers at school and foremen in factories—that she had something up her sleeve, that she was slyly outraging authority.
"Come in!" said Polly.
She was still in bed, her breakfast, untouched, on a tray beside her. She looked stale, broken, weary in body and in spirit, miserably inferior to the sparkling girl who stood waiting for her orders.
"Good morning! Sit down," she said, politely enough.
She could say nothing further. Weary from a sleepless night, sick with grief and longing, lonely as a traveler stranded on a desolate shore, it seemed to her impossible to communicate with any one about her. She could think of no words that they would comprehend, no answer from them that would give her any possible solace.
She seemed to Angelica a sallow, listless woman of forty, who persisted very selfishly in staring out of the window and preserving a tedious silence. She had no faintest idea of that anguish of a fine and strong soul.
"Would you mind——” said Polly, suddenly. "There’s a little leather book in my desk, and a fountain pen. I’d like to write a little."