She retreated from the door, and the scratching of the pen continued.

Alice downstairs felt like a caged lion.  Mrs. Tennant admitted that Kathleen’s conduct was very bad.

“It won’t happen again, Alice,” she said, “for I shall remove the key from the lock.  She won’t shut you out another time.  Make the best of it, darling.  If we don’t worry her too much she is sure to capitulate.”

“Not she.  She is a perfect horror,” said Alice.

Mrs. Weldon’s supper party was to begin at eight o’clock.  It was now seven, and the girls were to call for Alice at half-past.  If Kathleen would only be quick she might still have time.

The boys came in.  They stared open-eyed at Alice when they saw her still sitting in her rough school things, a very cross expression on her face.  David came up to her at once; he was the favorite, and people said he had a way with him.  Whatever they meant by that, most people did what David Tennant liked.  He stood in front of his sister now and said: 

“What’s the matter?  And where’s the little Irish beauty?”

“For goodness’ sake don’t speak about her,” said Alice.  “She’s driving me nearly mad.”

“Your sister is naturally much annoyed, David,” said his mother.  “Kathleen is evidently a very tiresome girl.  She has locked the door of their mutual bedroom, and declines to open it; she says that as the door happens to be in her half of the room, she has perfect control over it.”

David whistled.  Ben burst out laughing.

“Well, now that is Irish,” David said.

“If you take her part I shall hate you all the rest of my life,” said Alice, speaking with great passion.

“But can’t you wait just for once?” asked David.  “Any one could tell she is just trying it on.  She’ll get tired of sitting there by herself if only you have patience.”

“But I am due at Cassandra’s for supper” and Mary Addersley and Rhoda Pierpont are to call for me at half-past seven.”

“Oh, that’s it, is it?” said David.—­“Ben, leave off teasing.”  For Ben was whistling and jumping about, and making the most expressive faces at poor Alice,—­“I will see what I can do,” he said, and he ran upstairs.  David was very musical; indeed, the soul of music dwelt in his eyes, in his voice, in his very step.  He might in some respects have been an Irish boy himself.  He bent down now and whistled very softly, and in the most flute-like manner, “Garry Owen” through the keyhole.  There was a restless sound in the room, and then a cross voice said: 

“Go away.”

David stopped whistling “Garry Owen,” and proceeded to execute a most exquisite performance of “St. Patrick’s Day in the Morning.”  Kathleen trembled.  Her eyes filled with tears.  David was now whistling right into her room “The Wearing of the Green.”  Kathleen flung down her pen, making a splash on the paper.

“Go away,” she called out.  “What are you doing there?”