“I didn’t go that way,” she said, with a touch of defiance. “It was only the cart-horses I saw to. Joe was there too. Oliver always does the cob.”
“What does it matter?” Nell said again. “Maggie can have her supper when she comes in. There’s no reason to wait for her.”
“It does matter,” he returned sternly. “I won’t have any of you out on the moors after dark, and you know it.”
“My good man!” said Nell. “What do you think we’re made of?”
He whirled upon her in a sudden tempest of wrath. “Don’t you dare to gainsay me! I mean it. I—will—not—have—you—out—after—dark. Is that plain enough? Damn it! Do you think I’ll be defied to my face?”
“My dear!” said Mrs. Dermot very gently.
He looked down at her and curbed himself. “I’m sorry, Mother. But a chit like that—not eighteen!”
“I am eighteen,” asserted Nell, crimson-cheeked. “And I won’t be kept in order by you. So there!”
He turned his eyes upon her, and she shrank in spite of herself. “You will be kept in order by me,” he said. “You will go up to your room now—do you hear?—and stay there for the rest of the night.”
“I!” said Nell. “What—now?” She stood gripping the back of the chair in which she had been about to seat herself. Her face had gone from red to white. Her eyes stared straight across the table at her brother.