Since that time she had done queer things to her hair, pursed
her lips, and cultivated an expression of chronic yearning.
"I haven't seen you since breakfast, Nellie," she said gently. "Haven't
you a kiss for me?"
Eleanor presented a perfunctory cheek over the banisters, taking care
that it was not the one that had been kissed a few minutes before.
"Remember your promise," Aunt Enid whispered; "don't forget that your
grandmother is an old lady and you must not excite her."
"But she excites me," said Eleanor doggedly. "She makes me want to smash
windows and scream."
"Why, Nellie!" Miss Enid's mournful eyes filled with tears. Instantly
Eleanor was all contrition.
"I'm sorry!" she said, with a real kiss this time. "I'll behave. Give you
my word I will!" And, with an affectionate squeeze of the hand that
clasped hers, she ran up the steps.
The upper hall, like the rest of the house, was pervaded by an air of
gloomy grandeur. Everything was dreary, formal, fixed. Not an ornament or
a picture had been changed since Eleanor could remember. She was the only
young thing about the place, and it always seemed to her as if the house
and its occupants were conspiring to make her old and staid and stupid,
like themselves.
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