"She is coming? Lily is coming?"
"Yes. Will you have some fresh flowers put in her rooms in the
morning?"
Suddenly Mademoiselle forgot her years of repression, and flinging
her arms around Grace's neck she kissed her. Grace held her for a
moment, patting her shoulder gently.
"We must try to make her very happy, Mademoiselle. I think things
will be different now."
Mademoiselle stood back and wiped her eyes.
"But she must be different, too," she said. "She is sweet and good,
but she is strong of will, too. The will to do, to achieve, that
is one thing, and very good. But the will to go one's own way,
that is another."
"The young are always headstrong, Mademoiselle."
But, alone later on, her rosary on her knee, Mademoiselle wondered.
If youth were the indictment against Lily, was she not still young?
It took years, or suffering, or sometimes both, to break the will
of youth and chasten its spirit. God grant Lily might not have
suffering.
It was Grace's plan to say nothing to Lily, but to go for her herself,
and thus save her the humiliation of coming back alone. All morning
housemaids were busy in Lily's rooms. Rugs were shaken, floors waxed
and rubbed, the silver frames and vases in her sitting room polished
to refulgence.
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