She said nothing, however, because her grandchild showed no disposition to confide in her, and she knew that more harm than good would result from asking questions. She couldn’t get near to Ethel. She had tried time after time, with all her quiet subtlety, to bring about a greater intimacy, to show how steadfast and profound was her sympathy; but Ethel never saw.
In fact, Ethel didn’t know that she needed sympathy. She thought that all she wanted was to be let alone. Without in the least meaning to be unkind, she ignored the invaluable love that would so greatly have helped her.
For the third time the servant came in to light the lamp, and this time Mrs. Mazetti permitted it. She had given up expecting Ethel for that day.
“She has forgotten,” she thought.
In spite of her bitter disappointment, she could still smile a little over the girl’s careless youth. The sun had vanished now, and a strange yellow twilight lay over the earth like a sulphurous mist. It was a melancholy hour. The brightness of the little room made the outside world more forlorn and dim by contrast.
Mrs. Mazetti was about to turn away from the window with a sigh, when she caught sight of Ethel hurrying along the road—with a young man. The girl’s companion left her when they were still some distance from the house. If the old lady hadn’t had remarkably sharp eyes, she would never have seen him.
Ethel came in alone.
“Grandmother!” she said. “I’m awfully ashamed of myself for being so late!”
She really was ashamed and sorry, but it was not her nature to invent excuses, and she had no intention of explaining. Mrs. Mazetti saw all this perfectly, and did not fail to note something defiant in her grandchild’s expression. Nevertheless, she meant to come to the point this time.
“You were with a friend?” she asked mildly.