"Yes, mother, in the morning. I am a little tired—but it was very sweet," said Ephie bravely. "Good night."
Mrs. Cayhill kissed her, and nodded in perfect contentment at the pretty little figure before her. Ephie was free to go. And at last she was in her own room—at last!
She hastily locked both doors, one leading to the passage and one to her sister's room. A moment later, Johanna was at the latter, trying to open it.
"Ephie! What is the matter? Why have you locked the door? Open it at once, I insist upon it," she cried anxiously, and as loudly as she dared, for fear of disturbing the other inmates of the house.
But Ephie begged hard not to be bothered; she had a bad headache, and only wanted to be quiet.
"Let me give you a powder," urged her sister. "You are so excited—I am sure you are not well;" and when this, too, was refused: "You had nothing but some tea, child—you must be hungry. And they have left our supper on the table."
No, she was not hungry, didn't want any supper, and was very sleepy.
"Well, at least unlock your door," begged Johanna, with visions of the dark practices which Ephie, the soul of candour, might be contemplating on the other side. "I will not come in, I promise you," she added.
"Oh, all right," said Ephie crossly. But as soon as she heard that Johanna had gone, she returned to the middle of the room without touching the door; and after standing undecided for a moment, as if not quite sure what was coming next, she sat down on a chair at the foot of the bed, and suddenly began to cry. The tears had been in waiting for so long that they flowed without effort, abundantly, rolling one over another down her cheeks; but she was careful not to make a sound; for, even when sobbing bitterly, she did not forget that at any moment Johanna might enter the adjoining room and overhear her. And then, what a fuss there would be! For Ephie was one of those fortunate people who always get what they want, and but rarely have occasion to cry. All her desires had moved low, near earth, and been easily fulfilled. Did she break her prettiest doll, a still prettier was forthcoming; did anything happen to cross wish or scheme of hers, half a dozen brains were at work to think out a compensation.
But now she wept in earnest, behind closed doors, for she had received an injury which no one could make good. And the more she thought of it, the more copiously her tears flowed. The evening had been one long tragedy of disappointment: her fevered anticipation beforehand, her early throbs of excitement in the theatre, her growing consternation as the evening advanced, her mortification at being slighted—a sensation which she experienced for the first time. Again and again she asked herself what she had done to be treated in this way. What had happened to change him?