"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!
"I'm not going to let her think she can spoil my appetite!" said Sophia, dauntless.
Truly that woman's spirit was unquenchable.
She cut a couple of slices off the cold fowl; she cut a tomato into slices; she disturbed the butter; she crumbled bread on the cloth, and rubbed bits of fowl over the plates, and dirtied knives and forks.
Then she put the slices of fowl and bread and tomato into a piece of tissue paper, and silently went upstairs with the parcel and came down again a moment afterwards empty-handed.
After an interval she rang the bell, and lighted the gas.
"We've finished, Maud.
You can clear away."
Constance thirsted for a cup of tea.
She felt that a cup of tea was the one thing that would certainly keep her alive.
She longed for it passionately.
But she would not demand it from Maud.
Nor would she mention it to Sophia, lest Sophia, flushed by the victory of the door, should incur new risks.
She simply did without.
On empty stomachs they tried pathetically to help each other in games of Patience.