The child flashed past her
up the stairs and soon could be heard from an upstair window calling
imperatively for Aunt Amy. But Aunt Amy, flitting through the dim garden
wringing her hands, did not hear. Jane, much injured, went to bed by
herself that night.
In the lamp-lit room there was no more music. The murmur of voices grew
less distinct. There were intervals of silence. (Only very old friends
can support a silence gracefully--but of course these two were very old
friends.) Esther wondered, idly, how it would be best to explain her
absence to her mother. Toothache, perhaps? Not that the excuse mattered.
Mary never listened to excuses. She would be cross and fretful anyway
and complain that Esther never treated her friends with proper courtesy.
The best thing she could do would be to go to bed. But she made no
movement to go; the moments ticked by on the hall clock unnoticed.
After a time, which might have been long or short, there was a stir in
the room and her mother's voice called "Esther! Esther!"
The girl stood up, smoothed her white dress, slipped out on to the
veranda and into the garden.
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