And then suddenly her door opened softly, and Rose came in in her nightdress, and stood looking in sleepy surprise at the motionless figure seated on the bed. She advanced to the bed and sat down beside the girl and started a whispered conversation.
“I heard you come in,” she said. “Jim’s asleep. Have you had a good time? Why don’t you get to bed?”
“I forgot,” Esmé said, and began to unfasten her dress. Rose became actively helpful.
“You are tired,” she said. “What’s the matter, dear?” She took the girl’s face between her hands and scrutinised it closely. “Esmé, what has happened? I wish you’d confide in me more.”
The gentle reproach in her sister’s voice, acting on her overwrought nerves, caused the tears, so near the surface, to overflow. She dropped her face on to Rose’s shoulder and wept softly.
“Did George say anything to you to-night?” Rose asked, feeling increasingly surprised. She had not wept when Jim proposed to her. She remembered quite vividly that she had felt elated and very excited. She had wanted to speak of it, to tell people. She could not fathom Esmé’s mood.
“Is that the trouble, little goose?” she asked. “I knew—we all knew—he meant to propose.”
Whereupon Esmé lifted her face and turned her tear-wet eyes on the speaker in wide amaze.
“You knew!” she said. “Well, I didn’t. I wish I had known. I thought he was just a pal.”
“A pal makes a good husband,” Rose said thoughtfully, with the first glimmer of doubt in her mind as to what answer her sister had returned. “It’s all right, isn’t it?”