“I am sorry you feel that way about it,” and turned and left the room.
She had made no plan, of course. She hated doing theatrical things. But shut in her bedroom with the doors locked, Anthony's furious words came back, his threats, his bitter sneers. She felt strangely alone, too. In all the great house she had no one to support her. Mademoiselle, her father and mother, even the servants, were tacitly aligned with the opposition. Except Ellen. She had felt lately that Ellen, in her humble way, had espoused her cause.
She had sent for Ellen.
In spite of the warmth of her greeting, Lily had felt a reserve in Aunt Elinor's welcome. It was as though she was determinedly making the best of a bad situation.
“I had to do it, Aunt Elinor,” she said, when they had gone upstairs. There was a labor conference, Doyle had explained, being held below.
“I know,” said Elinor. “I understand. I'll pin back the curtains so you can open your windows. The night air is so smoky here.”
“I am afraid mother will grieve terribly.”
“I think she will,” said Elinor, with her quiet gravity. “You are all she has.”
“She has father. She cares more for him than for anything in the world.”
“Would you like some ice-water, dear?”