Anthea walked straight past the uncomfortable parlourmaid, and the others followed her. Mrs Biddle had her back to them, and was smoothing down the carpet with the same boot that had trampled on the hand of Robert. So that they were all in the room, and Cyril, with great presence of mind, had shut the room door before she saw them.
‘Who is it, Jane?’ she asked in a sour voice; and then turning suddenly, she saw who it was. Once more her face grew violet—a deep, dark violet. ‘You wicked daring little things!’ she cried, ‘how dare you come here? At this time of night, too. Be off, or I’ll send for the police.’
‘Don’t be angry,’ said Anthea, soothingly, ‘we only wanted to ask you to let us have the carpet. We have quite twelve shillings between us, and—’
‘How DARE you?’ cried Mrs Biddle, and her voice shook with angriness.
‘You do look horrid,’ said Jane suddenly.
Mrs Biddle actually stamped that booted foot of hers. ‘You rude, barefaced child!’ she said.
Anthea almost shook Jane; but Jane pushed forward in spite of her.
‘It really IS our nursery carpet,’ she said, ‘you ask ANY ONE if it isn’t.’
‘Let’s wish ourselves home,’ said Cyril in a whisper.
‘No go,’ Robert whispered back, ‘she’d be there too, and raving mad as likely as not. Horrid thing, I hate her!’