In the sitting-room she found Mary Cass sitting at the table with a pile of books in front of her, nibbling a pencil.
"Hullo!" cried Mary. "You back already?"
Then she jumped up, the book falling from her hand to the floor.
"Darling, what's the matter? . . . What's happened?"
"Why, do I look funny?" said Millie smiling. "There's nothing the matter. I've got an awful headache—that's all. I'm going to lie down."
But Mary had her arms around her. "Millie, what is it? You look awful. Are you feeling ill?"
"No, only my headache." Millie gently disengaged herself from Mary's embrace. "I'm going into my room to lie down."
"Shall I get something for you? Let me——"
"Please leave me alone, Mary dear. I want to be left alone. That's all I want."
She went into her bedroom, drew down the blinds, lay down on her bed, closing her eyes. How weak and silly she was to come home just for a headache, to give up her morning's work without an effort because she felt a little ill! Think of all the girls in the shops and the typists and the girl secretaries and the omnibus girls and all the others, they can't go home just because they have a headache—just because . . .