But she was the first to find speech; and incoherently she stormed as at a scratching do those persons whose true selves lie beneath a tissue film of polish.
She bubbled and panted: “Oh, you wicked girl!—oh, you wicked girl!—oh, you wicked girl!—bold as brass-calling me a liar—me—and my battered boy—engaged indeed!—I'll have the law and the police and the judges—my solicitors—libel and assault, and slander and attempted murder—boxes searched—my precious lambs to hear their mother spoken to like this—get out of the hat-rack, David, and go upstairs this instant—Angela, don't stand there—if I wasn't a lady I'd box your ears, miss—only a week ago didn't I give you a black silk skirt of mine?—and fed you like a princess, with a soft feather pillow too, because you said the bolster made your head ache—servants to wait on you hand and foot—and this is my reward—how I keep my hands off you heaven only knows—but you shall suffer, miss—oh, yes you shall—I'll give you in charge—I'll call a policeman.”
She turned towards the kitchen stairs; screamed “Susan! Kate! Jane! Susan!”
Small need to bellow. Around the staircase corner three white-capped heads—Kate holding back Susan, Susan restraining Jane, Jane holding Kate—had been with delighted eyes and straining ears bathing in this rare scene. With glad unanimity they broke their restraint one upon the other; crushed pell-mell, hustling up the narrow stairs.
Mrs. Chater plumped back into a chair; with huge hands fanned her heated face. “Fetch a policeman!”
They plunged for the door.
Bob's swollen countenance came over the banisters. He roared “Stop!”
Kate, Jane and Susan swung between the conflicting authorities.
“Call a policeman! Summon a constable! Fetch an officer!” In gusty breaths from behind Mrs. Chater's hands, working like a red paddle-wheel, came the commands.
“Stop!” roared Bob; and to enforce pushed forward the battered face till it stuck out flat over the hall.