“It is very late,” agreed Sylvia, also rising.  Horace rose.  There was a slight pause.  It seemed even then that Sylvia might take pity upon them and leave them.  But she stood like a rock.  It was quite evident that she would settle again into her rocking-chair at the slightest indication which the two young people made of a disposition to remain.

Rose gave a fluttering little sigh.  She extended her hand to Horace.  “Good-night, Mr. Allen,” she said.

“Good-night,” returned Horace.  “Good-night, Mrs. Whitman.”

“It is time you went to bed, too,” said Sylvia.

“I think I’ll go in and have a smoke with Mr. Whitman first,” said Horace.

“He’s going to bed, too,” said Sylvia.  “He’s tired.  Good-night, Mr. Allen.  If you open that window again, you’ll be sure and shut it down before you go up-stairs, won’t you?”

Horace promised that he would.  Sylvia went with Rose into her room to unfasten her gown.  A lamp was burning on the dressing-table.  Rose kept her back turned towards the light.  Her pretty face was flushed and she was almost in tears.  Sylvia hung the girl’s gown up carefully, then she looked at her lovingly.  Unless Rose made the first advance, when Sylvia would submit with inward rapture but outward stiffness, there never were good-night kisses exchanged between the two.

“You look all tired out,” said Sylvia.

“I am not at all tired,” said Rose.  She was all quivering with impatience, but her voice was sweet and docile.  She put up her face for Sylvia to kiss.  “Good-night, dear Aunt Sylvia,” said she.

“Good-night,” said Sylvia.  Rose felt merely a soft touch of thin, tightly closed lips.  Sylvia did not know how to kiss, but she was glowing with delight.

When she joined Henry in their bedroom down-stairs he looked at her in some disapproval.  “I don’t think you’d ought to have gone in there,” he said.

“Why not?”

“Why, you must expect young folks to be young folks, and it was only natural for them to want to set there in the moonlight.”

“They can set in there in the moonlight if they want to,” said Sylvia.  “I didn’t hinder them.”

“I think they wanted to be alone.”

“When they set in the moonlight, I’m going to set, too,” said Sylvia.  She slipped off her gown carefully over her head.  When the head emerged Henry saw that it was carried high with the same rigidity which had lately puzzled him, and that her face had that same expression of stern isolation.

“Sylvia,” said Henry.

“Well?”

“Does anything worry you lately?”

Sylvia looked at him with sharp suspicion.  “I’d like to know why you should think anything worries me,” she said, “as comfortable as we are off now.”

“Sylvia, have you got anything on your mind?”

“I don’t want to see young folks making fools of themselves,” said Sylvia, shortly, and her voice had the same tone of deceit which Rose had used when she spoke of the beautiful night.