She swayed pitilessly back and forth in her rocking-chair. Horace waited in an agony of impatience for her to leave them, but she had no intention of doing so. She rocked. Now and then she made some maddening little remark which had nothing whatever to do with the situation. Then she rocked again. Finally she triumphed. Rose stood up. “I think it is getting rather late,” said she.
“It is very late,” agreed Sylvia, also rising. Horace rose. There was a slight pause. It seemed even then that Sylvia might take pity upon them and leave them. But she stood like a rock. It was quite evident that she would settle again into her rocking-chair at the slightest indication which the two young people made of a disposition to remain.
Rose gave a fluttering little sigh. She extended her hand to Horace. “Good-night, Mr. Allen,” she said.
“Good-night,” returned Horace. “Good-night, Mrs. Whitman.”
“It is time you went to bed, too,” said Sylvia.
“I think I'll go in and have a smoke with Mr. Whitman first,” said Horace.
“He's going to bed, too,” said Sylvia. “He's tired. Good-night, Mr. Allen. If you open that window again, you'll be sure and shut it down before you go up-stairs, won't you?”
Horace promised that he would. Sylvia went with Rose into her room to unfasten her gown. A lamp was burning on the dressing-table. Rose kept her back turned towards the light. Her pretty face was flushed and she was almost in tears. Sylvia hung the girl's gown up carefully, then she looked at her lovingly. Unless Rose made the first advance, when Sylvia would submit with inward rapture but outward stiffness, there never were good-night kisses exchanged between the two.
“You look all tired out,” said Sylvia.
“I am not at all tired,” said Rose. She was all quivering with impatience, but her voice was sweet and docile. She put up her face for Sylvia to kiss. “Good-night, dear Aunt Sylvia,” said she.