right,” said Miss Bowater. She kissed her hand to looking-glass and four-poster, flung me a last fervid smile, and was gone. And the little box I had given her lay on the table, beside my bed.
I was aroused much later by the sound of voices drawing nearer. Instinctively I sat up, my senses fastened on the sound like a vampire. The voices seemed to be in argument, then the footsteps ceased and clear on the night air came the words:—
“But you made me promise not to write. Oh, Fanny, and you have broken your own!”
“Then you must confess,” was the cautious reply, “that I am consistent. As for the promises, you are quite, quite welcome to the pieces.”
“You mean that?” was the muffled retort.
“That,” cried the other softly, “depends entirely on what you mean by ‘mean.’ Please look happy! You’d soon grow old and uglier if there was only that scrap of moon to light your face.”
“Oh, Fanny. Will you never be serious?”—the misery in the words seemed to creep about in my own mind for shelter. They were answered by a sparkling gush of laughter, followed by a crisp, emphatic knock at the door. Fanny had returned from her party, and the eavesdropper buried her face in her pillow. So she enjoyed hurting people. And yet.…
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