“Not after what she said!” thought Madeline. “It would choke me!”
She fell asleep again, and was awakened by her aunt’s hand on her shoulder.
“Here’s that Mr. Ritchie,” the aunt announced.
“Well, tell him to go away!” replied Madeline.
“Tell him yourself,” said her aunt promptly. “I guess I got something better to do than carry messages for you!”
Her aunt was a severe, stout, bespec[Pg 100]tacled creature of fifty, a woman of invincible propriety, and Madeline’s conduct had stricken her to the heart. She was as glad to see Ritchie as if he were an angel, because obviously he could remedy all that was wrong; but she had no other way of expressing gratification, affection, or the most profound grief, than by her habitual disagreeableness.
“That’s just like you,” said Madeline.
She rose, too wretched to care how she looked, and went into the lugubrious little parlor where Ritchie waited.
“Well! I thought maybe you were sick,” said he.
“Well, I’m not,” she replied.