Mrs. Kenton had gone to Ellen’s room again when she had got the judge off upon his mission. She rather flung in upon her. “Oh, you are up!” she apologized to Ellen’s back. The girl’s face was towards the glass, and she was tilting her head to get the effect of the hat on it, which she now took off.
“I suppose poppa’s gone to tell him,” she said, sitting tremulously down.
“Didn’t you want him to?” her mother asked, stricken a little at sight of her agitation.
“Yes, I wanted him to, but that doesn’t make it any easier. It makes it harder. Momma!”
“Well, Ellen?”
“You know you’ve got to tell him, first.”
“Tell him?” Mrs. Kenton repeated, but she knew what Ellen meant.
“About—Mr. Bittridge. All about it. Every single thing. About his kissing me that night.”
At the last demand Mrs. Kenton was visibly shaken in her invisible assent to the girl’s wish. “Don’t you think, Ellen, that you had better tell him that—some time?”
“No, now. And you must tell him. You let me go to the theatre with him.” The faintest shadow of resentment clouded the girl’s face, but still Mrs. Kenton, thought she knew her own guilt, could not yield.