In that way the confidence became a triangle, and it ended as such triangles usually do—where it started—for Miss Meek came in to Leslie’s room and boomed out, “Oho, Miss Smarty! The Queen didn’t rule every one now, did she? And I’ll say jolly lucky for the Forbes man at that!” (Miss Meek dislikes Leslie)
And when Viola appeared later, and said, from the doorway, “Darling, is there anything I can do for you?” Leslie answered, “You can try to keep your mouth shut!” and then I think they had a row, although Leslie says that people of her station never row. It seemed like one to my simple nature, though, and during the course of it Leslie told Viola that her people were “nobodies” and that Mrs. Parrish hadn’t been “at all pleased” when she heard of Viola’s going, and that she, Leslie, now knew it was a “climber’s scheme”; and then Viola said that Leslie considered herself more important than she was, and that money wasn’t anything, and that now she knew that society was a “hollow sham,” since people like Leslie could masquerade as paragons or paramounts, or something like that—I sort of forget—in it.
And then they both cried, and Viola slammed the door as she left, and that started it—which was a feud that lasted until Viola had a trouble that was big enough to make even Leslie forgive her the things that she had said, on that rainy day that backed so many unpleasant happenings.
After I left Leslie, I went to my own room and stood by the window looking across the court. . . . There was no light in my artist’s window and there had been no sign of any life in the big room since the evening that followed my taking him home.
Mr. Wake had sent me a little note that read: “Sam Deane is all right now. Will report on Saturday.” But that didn’t tell me whether long Sam Deane had gone on to another part of the country or to another land or was still in Florence, and, somehow, it didn’t seem to satisfy me.
I wondered a lot as I stood there, and I realized that I had hoped—really without knowing it—that I’d see that tall Deane man again. But his rooms were empty and dark, and it was raining, and a swinging sign somewhere in the neighborhood protested in high shrill squeaks as the wind pushed it back and forth, and the twins had diphtheria, and I had been so cross to them sometimes, and they were so dear, and poor Beata had lost her sweetheart, and Leslie was crying, and Viola angry and miserable—and—I did want to wander out into our big, yellow-walled kitchen and say “What are you going to have for supper, Mother?”—and to know that they were all—every one of them—all right.
The court was growing very dark, and the shadows were gloomy. The rain was caught by a swooping wind and swished against the windows and ran down the panes in rivulets. And just after that the Pension bell jangled loudly, and I thought of the twins and of cablegrams, and when, after a long, long tightly stretched moment or two, some one tapped on my door, I had to moisten my lips before I could even half whisper, “Come—”
And then—
Oh, well—there is always, always, blue back of the gray! But somehow, when one is far from home and it rains hard, you sort of forget it!