“If you’ll excuse me, Mrs. Marchbanks, I don’t want any supper,” Hilda said; but she moved toward the stairs from which Maybelle had disappeared. The children were established at the dining table, eating noisily, poor, bewildered Miss Ferguson trying to wait on them. Fayte stood, a sandwich in his hand, backed against the sideboard, laughing silently at her. “She’ll stay, all right,” he called, half tauntingly. “I’ll not!” At his words and tone Hilda whirled from the lowest step of the stairs. “I will not. You’ll see!” CHAPTER XXIX THE RESURRECTION PLANT In her own room, the door slammed and locked, Hilda faced the situation. She fairly glowed and palpitated with the rage that ran like fire in her veins and seemed to burn out timidity and indecision. She’d done it now. Pearse had asked her to stay—and she’d told those people downstairs that she was going to leave. She would leave, too. If Pearse knew, he’d want her to leave. He’d want her to walk right out of the house. Without stopping to change from her riding dress she hurried from closet to bureau drawers, pulling out things, throwing them on the bed, folding them, dragging out her trunk, her valises, and beginning to pack. Movement in Maybelle’s room; but the door between wasn’t even touched. Well, she didn’t want to talk to Maybelle. She had nothing to say to any of them. She was going home. She worked more systematically now. The supper bell rang. Maybelle left her room and went down, humming, clattering on the stair. Then Mrs. Marchbanks herself came to call Hilda. Without opening her door Hilda repeated that she didn’t want any supper. “Not pouting, are you?” “No, I’m not pouting.” “Of course you aren’t. Well, come down when you get hungry, then,” Mrs. Marchbanks said finally. “I’ll leave something on the table for you.” And she went away. Sounds of the household at supper down there; then people moving about, talking. After a while, they began to come upstairs, the children first, Mrs. Marchbanks with them, stopping to tap at the door and ask if Hilda was all right. “Yes. All right, thank you, Mrs. Marchbanks.” The crispness of her tone seemed to send Mrs. Marchbanks away pretty promptly. Later Miss Ferguson’s slow, precise tread, its hesitation at her door, then the going on. Hilda was glad of that. Miss Ferguson was a good sort, she meant well; but Hilda didn’t want to see her now. Maybelle in her room again, moving about softly; the colonel’s heavy step; sounds of him locking up; he and Fayte on the stair, quarreling as usual, but in low tones.