A voice from the top of the stairs brought her back to the horrid reality.
"What on earth are you doing, Gertrude? They have gone long ago."
Then Miss Fosdick remembered that there were still thirty-seven strokes of the brush to be done.
When she re-entered the bedroom, Aunt Henrietta was awaiting her in a cold fury. She exhibited all the signs of what Miss Fosdick described to herself as "a tantrum." She had been working toward this point ever since dinner-time. Miss Fosdick knew the signs—the look of fury in the eye, the distended nostrils of the large, fleshy nose, the fat hands clasping the foot of the bed, the heavy breathing. With her thin grey hair hanging about her face, she was a terrifying sight that caused all the flame of rebellion burning in Miss Fosdick's bosom to turn to water and flow away.
For a moment Mrs. Weatherby stood regarding her in a cold silence as if choosing how she should begin. Then suddenly she found what was needed.
"What on earth have you got in your hair?" she cried out. "I think you must be crazy lately . . . an old maid like you putting flowers in her hair, as if a man was going to look at you."
Something exploded in Miss Fosdick's brain. She hurled the brush and the candle on the floor. The card of Oreste Valmente, Duke of Fonterrabia and Marquis of Santoban, fell with them.
