She went out and left the door open.
It was a defiance, offered from sheer, youthful, wanton mischief.
The sisters looked at each other, their faces gravely troubled, aghast, as though they had glimpsed the end of civilized society, as though they felt that they had lived too long into an age of decadence and open shame. Constance’s face showed despair—she might have been about to be pitched into the gutter without a friend and without a shilling—but Sophia’s had the reckless courage that disaster breeds.
Sophia jumped up, and stepped to the door. “Maud,” she called out.
No answer.
“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.