“Now go out,” Emily told them; “we want to be alone.”
The little girls looked up. Miss Alexina was tall and fair and friendly, she wore lovely dresses, she went to balls, and they adored her. She felt the flattery and liked it too. “Oh,” she interceded, “no, don’t, Emily.”
“Yes,” said Emily; “we want to talk. Go on, Nan—Nell; don’t you hear?”
The little sisters gathered up books and slates with some show of resentment; it was their room too. Emily shut the door behind them.
The breadths of a light-hued silk dress were lying about the room. Emily was ripping on the waist. “It’s a dress Miss Harriet gave mother for a quilt while you were away, but I told her it would be no such thing if I could devise it otherwise.”
She frowned, then threw the waist down. “Not that I don’t hate it—the devising, the scheming.”
“I wouldn’t do it,” said Alexina bluntly.
“Which is easy for you to say,” retorted Emily, her eyes sweeping Alexina from top to toe. Harriet Blair knew how to dress the girl.
“Yes,” said Alexina; “I suppose that’s true.” It was part of her hold on Emily, her fairness. “But you’re welcome to anything of mine; I’ve reason somehow to hate ’em all.”
The colour heightened on Emily’s face and she looked eager. Passion expresses itself variously. The stern old grandfather abased and denied the physical and material needs. Emily exulted in the very sheen of rich fabric, in the feel of satin laid to cheek. Was the grandchild but fulfilling the law of reaction? The soul of Emily and the soul of the old preacher saw each other across a vast abyss.