Elizabeth hurried to her room, as a bird with heavy wings beaten down by a tempest rushes to find shelter. Her mouth somewhat twisted, her lips dry, her limbs wearied by the effort to climb the stairs, she fell into an armchair, where, alone with herself, she could better bear her state of fatigue, and uneasiness of heart. This scene had been surprising and terrifying to her, who disliked violent or even unexpected sensations, and sought nothing but peace, order and daily unvarying monotony. Darkness, kind charitable darkness, enveloping her like a veil which hangs lightly from the shoulders, lessened her indignation, but made her more self-pitying. She was confiding in herself as in a friend, and so found relief, when her mother came in, scarcely touching the door, as if in the intimacy of the family, it were almost unnecessary to announce oneself. "Elizabeth," called Mme. de Molay-Norrois. Elizabeth did not answer at once, finding added vexation in the fact that she who was so seldom in need of it, was even at this time unable to have a corner in which she might take refuge undisturbed. "You are tired--why did you not ring?" "I am not tired, Mamma." How could she stem this maternal solicitude? Mme. Molay-Norrois had already lighted a lamp, closed the window to keep out the mosquitoes and the September breeze, and was studying the dear face, whose every expression she knew. "You are flushed. You have been crying. And you have told me nothing." "I have a headache, that is all." "A headache? You were out all afternoon. It is not a headache. You have some trouble and you will not tell me." For the first time the young woman understood that even with those who love one best, one is often alone, and that any presence, even the dearest, may be intolerable. For the first time too, she really understood the tone of voice in which she was being addressed; the one which is suited to little girls, to encourage them, or quiet and control them. By what inexplicable mistake did they continue to use it in speaking to her? Misfortune itself had matured her, and yet they treated her like a little child. Her sadness was intensified by it, as is the pain of a wound that is inflamed by unskillful care. "There is nothing the matter," she reaffirmed. Her mother, baffled, was surprised and sorry, and finally, to change the subject, said in an off-hand manner: "We are dining with the Vimelles to-night; you have just about time to get ready." "I shall not go." "What? You have accepted their invitation. It is too late to refuse. Then, the other day you declined at the last minute. And you have just told me you are not ill--no, no, you must come; it is absolutely necessary." "Nevertheless, I shall not go," Elizabeth repeated with a new note of authority.