That is to say, she was on her way to bed, and she ran up the stairs as far as the landing; but there she paused. The acoustic properties of the house were excellent, and from the stairway landing one could hear perfectly what was said in the library when the library door was open. What stopped Lily was the bitter conviction in her mother’s voice. “Do you see?” Mrs. Dodge demanded. “Do you see what you’re _doing_? It’s just as I told you it would be. Absolutely!” “Oh, no!” he protested. “This much isn’t a fair trial. You haven’t given it a chance.” “Haven’t I?” Mrs. Dodge laughed satirically. “It’s had chance enough to show where it’s certain to end. Don’t you see that for yourself?” “No. What makes you think I should?” “I’ll tell you.” But before going on to relate her impressions of the evening, Mrs. Dodge had a deterrent thought. She stood silent a moment, then went to the door and called softly upward, “Lily?” “Yes, Mamma. I’m just going up to bed,” Lily said, diplomatically, and proceeded upon her way as her mother closed the library door. Lily wondered if they were talking about her, though she was unable to see how giving something a fair trial could have anything to do with her. She could no longer hear the words her parents were uttering, though the sound of their voices still came to her in the upper hall, and it was evident that they were beginning a spirited discussion. Her father’s voice sounded protestive, her mother’s denunciatory, and Lily decided that they probably weren’t talking about her at all. She was in high spirits and laughed to herself over their earnestness—older people got excited and argued so over such dull matters, she thought. It would be a terrible thing ever to get middle-aged like that! She never would be like that, she said to herself as she undressed. Never! Such a thing couldn’t happen. “To be like Mamma and not care much what you wear, or anything, and with a good dry old husband at home—and all so dusty and musty and _settled_—and not able to _look_ at another man—I could never in the world be like that! Ada Corey could, but I couldn’t. I’d a thousand times rather die!” And with the thought of Ada she remembered Ada’s rather enigmatic remarks to her in the cloakroom and the queer look Ada had given her. The recollection of that oddly sharp look disturbed her, and, when she had gone to bed, kept her awhile from sleeping. There had been something appealing in that look, too, something excitedly reticent, as of strange knowledge withheld, and yet something humble and questing. And what in the world had she meant by saying, “I’m sorry!” as she ran out of the room.