“Go to bed!” thundered Mr. Carter, taking a step forward.
“I——” Leigh began to sputter again, but his mother thrust him out and shut the door.
“Do speak lower, Johnson,” she sobbed. “I know Miranda listens.”
“I don’t care a hang whether Miranda listens or not,” said Mr. Carter. “That boy’s an ass—talk about his being a genius!”
“Oh, papa, he’s only eighteen,” said Mrs. Carter deprecatingly, “and she’s made up to him from the very first.”
“He’s an ass!” repeated Mr. Carter. “And I guess the whole town knows I’ve got a ballet-dancer——”
He stopped; his eye had suddenly lighted on Emily. She was huddled in a frightened attitude behind her mother’s chair, and the light was strong on her face. Her father stared.
“What’s the matter with that child’s eyes?” he demanded suddenly. “They look like burnt holes in a blanket!”
Mrs. Carter, following his look, suddenly noticed her daughter’s eyelashes and nose. In an illuminating flash she remembered that first night in Emily’s room.
“Oh, Emmy!” she gasped. “You’ve painted your eyelashes!”