At the tone Ethelwynne suddenly shivered, threw herself on the couch, and fell to crying weakly. “I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean it at all. I only wanted to say something horrid. I wanted you to suffer too. I just wanted to say it, and so I did say it. Oh, oh, oh, I am so miserable! I want to go home.”
Agnes paid no attention. In her sudden sharp resentment at the preposterous accusation, she had swung around in her chair, and her elbow had tipped over the inkwell, spilling the contents over the desk. She sat staring in horrified silence at her ruined drawing.
Finally Ethelwynne puzzled by the continued stillness peered with one eye from the sheltering fringes. She sprang up with a jump.
“Agnes, your beautiful fungi!”
A knock sounded at the door.
“Come,” called Agnes in mechanical response. There was a pause; then the knob turned and the visitor entered with diffident step.
Ethelwynne hastily smoothed her hair with one hand and felt of her belt with the other. “Oh, good evening, Professor Stratton,” she stuttered from surprised embarrassment, “I mean, good morning. How do you do? Won’t you sit down?”
Agnes turned to look, and rose in sober greeting.
“You see it is spoiled,” she pointed to the ink-splotched drawing. “It was an accident. You don’t know how exceedingly sorry I am, Professor Stratton. The work on your book can go on without it, I hope.”
The older woman forgot her incorrigible shyness in dismay. “What a shame! How distressing!” She hurried forward impulsively to examine the sheet. “Since you brought it to me last night I have been exulting in the thought of it. You have great talent for such work. The time you have spent on it! How distressing!” She stopped in thoughtful fear that she might be adding to the girl’s disappointment. “An accident, you say? How did it happen?”