That night, after Connie had finished her toilet for the night and was safely in bed, with a new novel of Fogazzaro before her and a reading lamp beside her, she suddenly put out her arms, and took Annette’s apple-red countenance—as the maid stooped over her to straighten the bed-clothes—between her two small hands.
“Netta, I’ve had a real bad day!”
“And why, please, my lady?” said Annette rather severely, as she released herself.
“First I had a quarrel with Nora—then some boring people came to lunch—then I had a tiresome ride—and now Aunt Ellen has been pointing out to me that it’s all my fault she has to get a new dress, because people will ask me to dinner-parties. I don’t want to go to dinner-parties!”
And Connie fell back on her pillows, with a great stretch, her black brows drawn over eyes that still smiled beneath them.
“It’s very ungrateful of you to talk of a tiresome ride—when that gentleman took such pains to get you a nice horse,” said Annette, still tidying and folding as she moved about the room. Constance watched her, her eyes shining absently as the thoughts passed through them. At last she said:
“Do come here, Annette!”
Annette came, rather unwillingly. She sat down on the end of Constance’s bed, and took out some knitting from her pocket. She foresaw a conversation in which she would need her wits about her, and some mechanical employment steadied the mind.
“Annette, you know,” said Constance slowly, “I’ve got to be married some time.”