“You are a very naughty girl,” said Mrs. Baines, with restraint.  ("I’ve got her,” said Mrs. Baines to herself.  “I may just as well keep my temper.”)

And a sob broke out of Sophia.  She was behaving like a little child.  She bore no trace of the young maiden sedately crossing the Square without leave and without an escort.

("I knew she was going to cry,” said Mrs. Baines, breathing relief.)

“I’m waiting,” said Mrs. Baines aloud.

A second sob.  Mrs. Baines manufactured patience to meet the demand.

“You tell me not to answer back, and then you say you’re waiting,” Sophia blubbered thickly.

“What’s that you say?  How can I tell what you say if you talk like that?” (But Mrs. Baines failed to hear out of discretion, which is better than valour.)

“It’s of no consequence,” Sophia blurted forth in a sob.  She was weeping now, and tears were ricocheting off her lovely crimson cheeks on to the carpet; her whole body was trembling.

“Don’t be a great baby,” Mrs. Baines enjoined, with a touch of rough persuasiveness in her voice.

“It’s you who make me cry,” said Sophia, bitterly.  “You make me cry and then you call me a great baby!” And sobs ran through her frame like waves one after another.  She spoke so indistinctly that her mother now really had some difficulty in catching her words.

“Sophia,” said Mrs. Baines, with god-like calm, “it is not I who make you cry.  It is your guilty conscience makes you cry.  I have merely asked you a question, and I intend to have an answer.”

“I’ve told you.”  Here Sophia checked the sobs with an immense effort.

“What have you told me?”

“I just went out.”

“I will have no trifling,” said Mrs. Baines.  “What did you go out for, and without telling me?  If you had told me afterwards, when I came in, of your own accord, it might have been different.  But no, not a word!  It is I who have to ask!  Now, quick!  I can’t wait any longer.”

("I gave way over the castor-oil, my girl,” Mrs. Baines said in her own breast.  “But not again!  Not again.!”)

“I don’t know,” Sophia murmured.

“What do you mean—­you don’t know?”

The sobbing recommenced tempestuously.  “I mean I don’t know.  I just went out.”  Her voice rose; it was noisy, but scarcely articulate.  “What if I did go out?”

“Sophia, I am not going to be talked to like this.  If you think because you’re leaving school you can do exactly as you like—­”

“Do I want to leave school?” yelled Sophia, stamping.  In a moment a hurricane of emotion overwhelmed her, as though that stamping of the foot had released the demons of the storm.  Her face was transfigured by uncontrollable passion.  “You all want to make me miserable!” she shrieked with terrible violence.  “And now I can’t even go out!  You are a horrid, cruel woman, and I hate you!  And you can do what you like!  Put me in prison if you like!  I know you’d be glad if I was dead!”