“Tell Mademoiselle to teach her a few things before the next audience, David, and come back to me in fifteen minutes. I have something important to talk over with you.”
David stood by the open door of the blue chamber half an hour later and watched Eleanor on her knees, repacking her suit-case. Her face was set in pale determined lines, and she looked older and a little sick. Outside it was blowing a September gale, and the trees were waving desperate branches in the wind. David had thought that the estate on the Hudson would appeal to the little girl. It had always appealed to him so much, even though his mother’s habits of migration with the others of her flock at the different seasons had left 143 him so comparatively few associations with it. He had thought she would like the broad sweeping lawns and the cherubim fountain, the apple orchard and the kitchen garden, and the funny old bronze dog at the end of the box hedge. When he saw how she was occupied, he understood that it was not her intention to stay and explore these things.
“Eleanor,” he said, stepping into the room suddenly, “what are you doing with your suit-case? Didn’t Mademoiselle unpack it for you?” He was close enough now to see the signs of tears she had shed.
“Yes, Uncle David.”
“Why are you packing it again?”
Her eyes fell and she tried desperately to control a quivering lip.
“Because I am—I want to go back.”
“Back where?”
“To Cape Cod.”
“Why, Eleanor?”