“Aunt Sylvia, you aren't going like this!” she cried. “I was afraid you wouldn't like it, though I don't know why. It does seem that Horace is all you could ask, if I were your very own daughter.”
“You are like my very own daughter,” said Sylvia, stiffly.
“Then why don't you like Horace?”
“I never said anything against him.”
“Then why do you look so?”
Sylvia stood silent.
“You won't go without kissing me, anyway, will you?” sobbed Rose.
This time she really wept with genuine hurt and bewilderment.
Sylvia bent and touched her thin, very cold lips to Rose's. “Now go to bed,” she said, and moved away, and was out of the room in spite of Rose's piteous cry to her to come back.
Henry, after he had entered the house and discovered that Sylvia was up-stairs with Rose, sat down to his evening paper. He tried to read, but could not get further than the glaring headlines about a kidnapping case. He was listening always for Sylvia's step on the stair.