Ethel’s face flushed, and her young mouth set in a harsh line.
“I’m not going to listen to any more lectures,” she thought. “No one understands. No one ever will!”
“This young man is a musician?” her grandmother asked.
“Yes, in a way,” said Ethel. “Isn’t the country pretty at this time of the year, grandmother?”
The old lady looked out of the window at the rapidly darkening sky, against which the trees stood out as black as ink. It seemed to her not at all pretty now, but vast and terrible.
“My little Ethel!” she thought. “My little bird, who longs to sing! What is this going on now, poor foolish little one? What am I to do?”
She missed her husband acutely. She missed him always, but more than ever at this instant. Ethel would have listened to him, for every one did. Quiet and tranquil as he was, there had been an air of authority about him that she had never seen disregarded.
Ethel was very still. The lamp threw a clear light on her warm, vivid young face, downcast and plainly unhappy.
“If I spoke to your Aunt Amy about those lessons?” suggested the old lady.
“It wouldn’t do the least bit of good, grandmother. I’ve said everything there is to be said; and—anyhow, I don’t care now.”