“I don’t want any, mother,” said Sophia, in dejection.  “I’m quite well.”

“You simply ate nothing all day yesterday,” said Mrs. Baines.  And she added, “Come!” As if to say, “There’s always this silly fuss with castor-oil.  Don’t keep me waiting.”

“I don’t want any,” said Sophia, irritated and captious.

The two girls lay side by side, on their backs.  They seemed very thin and fragile in comparison with the solidity of their mother.  Constance wisely held her peace.

Mrs. Baines put her lips together, meaning:  “This is becoming tedious.  I shall have to be angry in another moment!”

“Come!” said she again.

The girls could hear her foot tapping on the floor.

“I really don’t want it, mamma,” Sophia fought.  “I suppose I ought to know whether I need it or not!” This was insolence.

“Sophia, will you take this medicine, or won’t you?”

In conflicts with her children, the mother’s ultimatum always took the formula in which this phrase was cast.  The girls knew, when things had arrived at the pitch of ‘or won’t you’ spoken in Mrs. Baines’s firmest tone, that the end was upon them.  Never had the ultimatum failed.

There was a silence.

“And I’ll thank you to mind your manners,” Mrs. Baines added.

“I won’t take it,” said Sophia, sullenly and flatly; and she hid her face in the pillow.

It was a historic moment in the family life.  Mrs. Baines thought the last day had come.  But still she held herself in dignity while the apocalypse roared in her ears.

“Of course I can’t force you to take it,” she said with superb evenness, masking anger by compassionate grief.  “You’re a big girl and a naughty girl.  And if you will be ill you must.”

Upon this immense admission, Mrs. Baines departed.

Constance trembled.

Nor was that all.  In the middle of the morning, when Mrs. Baines was pricing new potatoes at a stall at the top end of the Square, and Constance choosing threepennyworth of flowers at the same stall, whom should they both see, walking all alone across the empty corner by the Bank, but Sophia Baines!  The Square was busy and populous, and Sophia was only visible behind a foreground of restless, chattering figures.  But she was unmistakably seen.  She had been beyond the Square and was returning.  Constance could scarcely believe her eyes.  Mrs. Baines’s heart jumped.  For let it be said that the girls never under any circumstances went forth without permission, and scarcely ever alone.  That Sophia should be at large in the town, without leave, without notice, exactly as if she were her own mistress, was a proposition which a day earlier had been inconceivable.  Yet there she was, and moving with a leisureliness that must be described as effrontery!