“No,” she answered, “it isn’t that. Get back into bed, Aunty, or you’ll catch cold.”
Aunt Philomela reluctantly obeyed and the girl fell into a deep sleep which remained uninterrupted until dawn. Then she crept to the window. It seemed more like a sunset than a sunrise she was watching.
For the next day or two she used Carl abominably. It was impossible for her to see him. Yet he was very patient—very sweet. He wrote her quiet, tender little notes and spent most of his time downstairs with Aunt Philomela. The latter came up one evening with her face set.
“Eleanor,” she snapped, “what I need is to get good and vexed once more.”
“What do you mean, Aunty?”
“I mean I almost ordered Mary to spill some hot tea on Carl.”
“You what?”
“I did,” she continued uncompromisingly.
“If Mr. Barnes—”
“I wish to goodness he’d drop in for an hour this very evening.”