Nina stood there pouting, tears were in her eyes.
“You’re unfair,” she said. “You don’t let me do anything. You give me no freedom, I don’t care for Boris, but if he wants to go he shall go. I’m grown up now. You have your Lawrence. Let me have my Boris.”
“My Lawrence?” asked Vera.
“Yes. You know that you’re always wanting him to come—always looking for him. I like him, too. I like him very much. But you never let me talk to him. You never—”
“Quiet, Nina.” Vera’s voice was trembling. Her face was sterner than I’d ever seen it. “You’re making me angry.”
“I don’t care how angry I make you. It’s true. You’re impossible now. Why shouldn’t I have my friends? I’ve nobody now. You never let me have anybody. And I like Mr. Lawrence—”
She began to sob, looking the most desolate figure.
Vera turned.
“You don’t know what you’ve said, Nina, nor how you’ve hurt.... You can go to your party as you please—”
And before I could stop her she was gone.