Ethel and Millicent disappeared after the manner of young fox-terriers; they did not visibly depart; they were there, one looked away, they were gone. In the bedroom which they shared, the door well locked, they threw oft all restraints, conventions, pretences, and discussed the world, and their own world, with terrible candour. This sacred and untidy apartment, where many of the habits of childhood still lingered, was a retreat, a sanctuary from the law, and the fastness had been ingeniously secured against surprise by the peculiar position of the bedstead in front of the doorway.
'Father is a donkey!' said Ethel.
'And ma never says a word!' said Milly.
'I could simply have smacked him when he brought in mother's birthday,' Ethel continued, savagely.
'So could I.'
'Fancy him thinking it's you. What a lark!'
'Yes. I don't mind,' said Milly.
'You are a brick, Milly. And I didn't think you were, I didn't really.'
'What a horrid pig you are, Eth!' Milly protested, and Ethel laughed.
'Did you give Fred my note all right?' Ethel demanded.