“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.
“Yes, grandmother.”
“Your Aunt Amy knows this friend?”
Ethel tried to imitate that tranquil, affectionate tone.