"I am not tired, Mamma."
How could she stem this maternal solicitude? Mme. Molay-Norrois had already lighted a lamp, closed the window to keep out the mosquitoes and the September breeze, and was studying the dear face, whose every expression she knew.
"You are flushed. You have been crying. And you have told me nothing."
"I have a headache, that is all."
"A headache? You were out all afternoon. It is not a headache. You have some trouble and you will not tell me."
For the first time the young woman understood that even with those who love one best, one is often alone, and that any presence, even the dearest, may be intolerable. For the first time too, she really understood the tone of voice in which she was being addressed; the one which is suited to little girls, to encourage them, or quiet and control them. By what inexplicable mistake did they continue to use it in speaking to her? Misfortune itself had matured her, and yet they treated her like a little child. Her sadness was intensified by it, as is the pain of a wound that is inflamed by unskillful care.
"There is nothing the matter," she reaffirmed.
Her mother, baffled, was surprised and sorry, and finally, to change the subject, said in an off-hand manner:
"We are dining with the Vimelles to-night; you have just about time to get ready."
"I shall not go."