her conscience by dwelling on Agatha's tiresome habit of magnifying details. "For instance," she said to herself, "if Agatha were the Creator she would make her beetles all legs and no body. One would think there was nothing of Mr. Provence but a mouth." But even then she was not happy, and when her head was fairly aching with sophistry (emphasized by the hair-brush) she marched into Agatha's room, which adjoined her own. The gentle Agatha was already in bed and asleep.
"Agatha," said Cynthia, tapping her shoulder enthusiastically with the bristle-side of her weapon. "Agatha, are you awake?"
Agatha started with pain, and opening her eyes, stared at her sister with something curiously resembling wrath. "I was not awake," she said.
"I only wanted to tell you," said Cynthia, "that I have been a Beast this evening. I am sorry," and then she returned—with the proud sorrow of a fallen angel in her expression—to her own apartment.
