"Why not?" demanded her aunt, severely. "Miss Desmond is not accustomed to have her invitations refused,—and you are bound to take advantage of such opportunities as may present themselves to you, living in the extraordinary way that your mother thinks suitable for you."
"Oh, well!" said Hildegarde, "Helena understood perfectly, and I thought it best not to go."
She was arranging the flowers as she spoke, and did not see the curious change that seemed to come over Mrs. Delansing's face. It was as if the stony repose of her features were broken,—some shifting light seemed to pass over her, changing into shadow, but a shadow softened into something approaching tenderness.
"Hildegarde, it is not on my account that you are making this sacrifice? I cannot permit—"
Hildegarde looked up; then laid down her roses, and crossed the room to lay her hand on her aunt's shoulder.
"Of course it is, Aunt Emily!" she said, impulsively. "I came here to see you, not to go to the opera. I have been out already more than I should to-day, but—but things happened, somehow. And this is the last evening we shall have together, and you know we are to play the grand final rubber; and—and I wanted to stay."
The old lady began to tremble in her chair; a mist came over her keen black eyes.
"My grandchildren would have gone!" she cried. "Blanche and Violette would have gone, and not have thought it necessary even to tell me. I have done everything for them, and nothing— Blanche has been here this afternoon!" she added, in a different voice, struggling for her usual composure. "She said—but it is of no consequence what she said."
"No, it really isn't, Aunt Emily!" said Hildegarde, venturing to stroke the silken shoulder affectionately. "Suppose we don't mind about Blanche now; she is very young for her age, don't you think? I can finish that story before I go to dress for dinner."
But Mrs. Delansing had something else to say.