"Now I must just show you," began Mrs. Adams. Then the catastrophe was discovered—a moment's silence, then a cry from the poor lady: "Oh, my vase! It was priceless!" (It was not, but no matter.)
About Barbara the air clung so thick with catastrophe that it was from a very long way indeed that she heard Mary's voice:
"Barbara didn't mean——-"
"Did you do this, Barbara?" her mother turned round upon her.
"You know, Mary, I've told you a thousand times that you're not to come in here!" this from Mrs. Adams, who was obviously very angry indeed.
Mary was on her feet now and, as she looked across at Barbara, there was in her glance a strange look, ironical, amused, inquisitive, even affectionate. "Well, mother, I knew we mustn't. But Barbara wanted to look so I said we'd just peep, but that we weren't to touch anything, and then Barbara couldn't help it, really; her shoulder just brushed the shelf——" and still as she looked there was in her eyes that strange irony: "Well, now you see me as I am—I'm bored by all this pretending. It's gone on long enough. Are you going to give me away?"
But Barbara could do nothing. Her whole world was there, like the Nankin vase, smashed about her feet, as it never, never would be again.
"So you did this, Barbara?" Mrs. Flint said.
"Yes," said Barbara. Then she began to cry.