It was a defiance, offered from sheer, youthful, wanton mischief.

The sisters looked at each other, their faces gravely troubled, aghast, as though they had glimpsed the end of civilized society, as though they felt that they had lived too long into an age of decadence and open shame.  Constance’s face showed despair—­she might have been about to be pitched into the gutter without a friend and without a shilling—­but Sophia’s had the reckless courage that disaster breeds.

Sophia jumped up, and stepped to the door.  “Maud,” she called out.

No answer.

“Maud, do you hear me?”

The suspense was fearful.

Still no answer.

Sophia glanced at Constance.  “Either she shuts this door, or she leaves this house at once, even if I have to fetch a policeman!”

And Sophia disappeared down the kitchen steps.  Constance trembled with painful excitement.  The horror of existence closed in upon her.  She could imagine nothing more appalling than the pass to which they had been brought by the modern change in the lower classes.

In the kitchen, Sophia, conscious that the moment held the future of at least the next three weeks, collected her forces.

“Maud,” she said, “did you not hear me call you?”

Maud looked up from a book—­doubtless a wicked book.

“No, ma’am.”

“You liar!” thought Sophia.  And she said:  “I asked you to shut the parlour door, and I shall be obliged if you will do so.”

Now Maud would have given a week’s wages for the moral force to disobey Sophia.  There was nothing to compel her to obey.  She could have trampled on the fragile and weak Sophia.  But something in Sophia’s gaze compelled her to obey.  She flounced; she bridled; she mumbled; she unnecessarily disturbed the venerable Spot; but she obeyed.  Sophia had risked all, and she had won something.

“And you should light the gas in the kitchen,” said Sophia magnificently, as Maud followed her up the steps.  “Your young eyes may be very good now, but you are not going the way to preserve them.  My sister and I have often told you that we do not grudge you gas.”

With stateliness she rejoined Constance, and sat down to the cold supper.  And as Maud clicked the door to, the sisters breathed relief.  They envisaged new tribulations, but for a brief instant there was surcease.

Yet they could not eat.  Neither of them, when it came to the point, could swallow.  The day had been too exciting, too distressing.  They were at the end of their resources.  And they did not hide from each other that they were at the end of their resources.  The illness of Fossette, without anything else, had been more than enough to ruin their tranquillity.  But the illness of Fossette was as nothing to the ingenious naughtiness of the servant.  Maud had a sense of temporary defeat, and was planning fresh operations; but really it was Maud who had conquered.  Poor old things, they were in such a ‘state’ that they could not eat!