But Sheila, who had blushed painfully at the suggestion of a lover who did not exist, heard Ted's name without a flush or a tremor; and in despair of any conversation about dress or beaux, the guest presently took her departure.
A few days later Charlotte went back to her city school for further "finishing," though she had already been sharpened and polished to a bewildering edge and brilliancy. And left to herself, Sheila resumed her unsophisticated, girlish life.
"We aren't going to have any young ladies at our house after all, Peter," Mrs. Caldwell announced triumphantly over her teacup one afternoon.
And Peter, lounging on the leafy veranda and appreciatively sipping Mrs. Caldwell's fragrant amber brew, lifted a languidly interested face: "How are you going to stop time for Sheila? Of course you've done it for yourself, but not even you, fairy godmother, can do that for other people."
"I don't intend to try. I don't want to try. Because—when my little girl goes—it's time that will bring me some one better."
"The young lady, dear Mrs. Caldwell. The young lady—inevitably."
"No, Peter—the woman!" And Mrs. Caldwell's voice rang with pride and confidence. "There's the making of one in Sheila, Peter—of a real woman!"
"What's become of the poet you used to see in her?" he inquired.
"Oh, you've shut that safely into a cage of books. I'm not afraid of it any more."
"It can still sing behind the bars, you know," he warned her.