"I am too tired. I don't want the fag of it all."
"But you will be less tired if you do go. The change will do you heaps of good, and it will not be a fag. I will pack for you."
Finding herself thus cornered, Faith's usually sweet temper gave way. "I haven't anything to pack," she snapped impatiently, "nor anything to pack in. I can't go. I can't possibly go. I haven't any clothes. Don't worry me so, Audrey."
Audrey showed no resentment. "Oh," she said, thoughtfully. "Oh, I see. Well, we won't bother about that now. But, Faith, I do want you to go. I came down on purpose to ask you to. I want you to go as—as a favour to me. I will tell you why. I want to stay at home, I—I mean I can't go away just now, for I want to finish some writing very, very particularly," and she breathed in Faith's ear the precious secret about her 'play.'
Her ruse answered perfectly.
"You have written a play!" Faith sat erect in her bed, all her tiredness, all her depression gone. "A real play! Oh, Audrey, do you mean it? How clever you are! Of course I'll go and take the children, to leave you here in peace to finish it. I don't care how shabby my clothes are!"
Audrey winced. She would have liked—or, rather, it would have been pleasant—if Faith—and all—could just have realised her self-sacrifice— how much it cost her to stand aside, and give up so great a pleasure.
"Oh, I could——" she began, but, to her lasting joy, recovered herself in a moment, and never finished her sentence.
"Audrey, will you let me read it, some day?" Faith's eyes were full of appeal.
Audrey coloured. "Some day, perhaps," she said shyly. "Now I must go to bed."