Then, when it did, he strode out of the room after her.
She was going up the stairs very slowly.
'Come down,' he said.
She went on as if she hadn't heard him.
'Come down. If you don't come down at once I'll fetch you.'
This, through all her wretchedness, through all her horror, for beating in her ears were two words over and over again, Lucy, Vera—Lucy, Vera struck her as so absurd, the vision of herself, more naturally nimble, going on up the stairs just out of Wemyss's reach, with him heavily pursuing her, till among the attics at the top he couldn't but run her to earth in a cistern, that she had great difficulty in not spilling over into a ridiculous, hysterical laugh.
'Very well then,' she said, stopping and speaking in a low voice so that Lucy shouldn't be disturbed by unusual sounds, 'I'll come down.' And shining, quivering with indomitableness, she did.
She arrived at the bottom of the stairs where he was standing and faced him. What was he going to do? Take her by the shoulders and turn her out? Not a sign, not the smallest sign of distress or fear should he get out of her. Fear of him in relation to herself was the last thing she would condescend to feel, but fear for Lucy—for Lucy.... She could very easily have cried out because of Lucy, entreated to be allowed to see her sometimes, humbled herself, if she hadn't gripped hold of the conviction of his delight if she broke down, of his delight at having broken her down, at refusing. The thought froze her serene.
'You will now leave my house,' said Wemyss through his teeth.
'Without my hat, Everard?' she inquired mildly.