Emily and Teddy both stood up so suddenly that they seemed veritably to have been jerked to their feet. Emily’s fairy world vanished like a dissolving bubble. She was in a different world altogether—an absurd, ridiculous one. Yes, ridiculous. Everything had suddenly become ridiculous. Could anything be more ridiculous than to be caught here with Teddy, by his mother, at two o'clock at night—what was that horrid word she had lately heard for the first time?—oh, yes, spooning—that was it—spooning on George Horton’s eighty-year-old tombstone? That was how other people would look at it. How could a thing be so beautiful one moment and so absurd the next? She was one horrible scorch of shame from head to feet. And Teddy—she knew Teddy was feeling like a fool.
To Mrs. Kent it was not ridiculous—it was dreadful. To her abnormal jealousy the incident had the most sinister significance. She looked at Emily with her hollow, hungry eyes.
“So you are trying to steal my son from me,” she said. “He is all I have and you are trying to steal him.”
“Oh, Mother, for goodness’ sake, be sensible!” muttered Teddy.
“He—he tells me to be sensible,” Mrs. Kent echoed tragically to the moon. “Sensible!”
“Yes, sensible,” said Teddy angrily. “There’s nothing to make such a fuss about. Emily was locked in the church by accident and Mad Mr. Morrison was there, too, and nearly frightened her to death. I came to let her out and we were sitting here for a few minutes until she got over her fright and was able to walk home. That’s all.”
“How did you know she was here?” demanded Mrs. Kent.
How indeed! This was a hard question to answer. The truth sounded like a silly, stupid invention. Nevertheless, Teddy told it.
“She called me,” he said bluntly.
