Phoebe was thinking what she should say next, when Gatty rose, took off her scarf, which she folded neatly and put away in the wardrobe, finished her undressing, and got into bed, without another word beyond “Good-night.”
For three weeks of the month which the visit was to last this proved to be the usual state of matters. Gatty and Phoebe regularly exchanged greetings, night and morning; but beyond this their conversation was limited to remarks upon the weather, and an occasional request that Phoebe would inspect the neat and proper condition of some part of Gatty’s dress which she could not conveniently see. And Phoebe began to come to the conclusion that Rhoda had judged rightly,—Gatty had nothing in her.
But one evening, when Molly had been surpassingly “clever,” keeping Rhoda in peals of laughter, and Phoebe in a state of annoyed disgust,—on reaching their bedroom, Phoebe found Gatty, still dressed, and sitting by the bed, with her face bowed upon her hands.
“I ask your pardon, but are you not well?” said Phoebe, in a sympathising tone.
“Oh, yes. Quite well,” was Gatty’s reply, in a constrained voice; but as she rose and moved her hands from her face, Phoebe saw that she had been crying.
“You are in trouble,” said Phoebe, gently. “Don’t tell me anything, unless you like; but I know what trouble is; and if I could help you—”
“You can’t,” said Gatty, shortly.
Phoebe was silent. Her sympathy had been repulsed—it was not wanted. The undressing was, as usual, without a word.
But when the girls had lain down in bed, Phoebe was a little surprised to hear Gatty say suddenly,—
“Phoebe Latrobe!—does anybody love you?”