“May I come in, Eleanor?” Beulah’s voice called.
“Yes, ma’am.” She started to get into bed, but Miss—Miss—the nearer she was to her, the harder it was to call her aunt,—Aunt Beulah might think it was time she was up. She compromised by sitting down in a chair.
Beulah had passed a practically sleepless night working out the theory of Eleanor’s development. The six had agreed on a certain sketchily defined method of procedure. That is, they were to read certain books indicated by Beulah, and to follow the general schedule that she was to work out and adapt to the individual needs of the child herself, during the first phase of the experiment. She felt that she 30 had managed the reception badly, that she had not done or said the right thing. Peter’s attitude had shown that he felt the situation had been clumsily handled, and it was she who was responsible for it. Peter was too kind to criticize her, but she had vowed in the muffled depths of a feverish pillow that there should be no more flagrant flaws in the conduct of the campaign.
“Did you sleep well, Eleanor?” she asked.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Are you hungry?”
“No, ma’am.”
The conversation languished at this.
“Have you had your bath?”
“I didn’t know I was to have one.”