"You don't understand!" Louise fought for calmness, for words that should enlighten and persuade. "I didn't mean to interfere. But the big attic! Mamma! Father! That's my room. I always go there—do my lessons there—I love it! You don't know how I love it. You see——" She paused helplessly.
"But you've got the nursery to sit in," said Mrs. Denny, equally helpless. "I'm sorry, Louise, if you've taken a fancy to the room—but I want it for cook."
Louise made her way to the hearth and stood between the pair.
"Mamma—please! Please! Please! There's the other attic for cook—not this one!"
"Now be quiet, Louise!" Mrs. Denny was getting impatient.
Suddenly Louise lost grip of herself.
"It's not right! It's not right! You've got all the house! Every room is yours and you grudge me that one! Nobody's ever wanted it but me! It's mine! You've got your lovely rooms—drawing-room, and dining-room, and morning-room, and bedroom, and summerhouse, and the boys have got the nursery and the maids have got the kitchen, and yet you won't let me have the attic! It's not fair! It's mean! Why can't cook have the other attic? Not this one! Not this one!"
"But why? Why?" Mrs. Denny was more bewildered than angry. She looked down at her step-daughter as a St. Bernard looks at an aggressive kitten. Desperately Louise tore off her veils.
"Because of Mother. Can't you understand? All her things are there. She's there! So I've always played up there. Oh, won't you understand?"
Mrs. Denny flushed.