"Why, I have been trying to be proper and dignified. I have been afraid you would think me giddy."
"Giddy,—good gracious, I like to see young people frisk a bit."
"If I might," said Derrice, cautiously, "if I might, I should like at this present moment to do something."
"What is it?"
"I should like to run around the house the way the Negus children do."
"Come along," said her hostess, laconically, and marching to the hall she threw open the large front door.
Derrice caught up the train of her evening gown and disappeared like a flash around one end of the house.
March was over, with its alternations of heat and cold, snow banks and running rivulets. The gravelled walks were now dry and firm after the warm April sunshine of the day, and Derrice ran until she was tired, then fluttering her precious letter in her hand she sank on the steps at Miss Gastonguay's feet.
"Come in, child," said that lady, "and have your evening cup of tea, and then play a game of bagatelle with me. That will keep you on your feet. I think I'll change my mind; your spirit is not all gone."
Later on—in the middle of the night—Miss Gastonguay emphasised this decision. Derrice's spirit certainly was not gone.