She longed to be alone, longed intensely to be free of what she felt to be such an alien presence as that of the woman who was still standing there, before her.
“Well, dear child, I will now say good night. But before I go I should like to see you drink up your Sirop. As a matter of fact I require the glass. We are short of glasses, for I broke mine to-day. If you will drink up your Sirop I will take the glass away and wash it, and then I will have it for myself. I generally drink a glass of water during the night.”
Lily was not particularly thirsty, but she would have done anything at this moment to get rid of Aunt Cosy. So she took up the glass which Cristina had left by her bedside.
And then there came in Uncle Angelo’s familiar fretful voice the words “Cosy! Cosy!”
The Countess turned quickly and, leaving the door open, went down the passage.
Lily rushed over to her tiny basin and ewer. Breathlessly she poured the Sirop into the ewer. Why should she drink this rather sweet, sickly stuff if she didn’t feel she wanted to do so?
She felt a little bit ashamed of her sly act, but Aunt Cosy’s ways induced slyness in those about her.
She went to the door and held out the glass; it was taken quickly from her hand, and then Lily shut the door with considerable relief.
She hesitated a moment—and then something, she could not have told you what, made her turn the key in the lock. It was the first time she had ever done this at La Solitude, or indeed anywhere else.
She undressed. She said her prayers. She got into bed. She blew out her candle. But try as she might she could not fall asleep! She was extraordinarily excited—at once happy and oppressed.