“Be a good little chicken,” he said; “wait three or four years, and you shall revel in this sort of thing till you find it’s all vanity.”
Three or four years! Nellie’s eyes flashed defiance at them both.
“I’m going,” she said, in a low, very determined voice. She brushed past Meg and went down five stairs.
But “Are you, my lady?” quoth Pip. He jumped the steps, caught her, and held her fast.
She struggled violently—anger and excitement lent her unnatural strength—and she freed herself at length, and fled in wild, mad haste down the stairs and to the front door. Once in the brougham, [190] ]which was only a little way off, and she knew she could bid defiance to all the Megs and Pips in the world!
But Pip’s blood was up. He had no intention of letting a little chit like Nellie get the upper hand of him, even if there were no real object at stake. As it was, the thought of his pretty, innocent little sister in the company of the “off crowd” of men he had seen young Fitzroy-Browne take home, and the loud women with whom he felt instinctively the girls consorted, made him shudder.
“Are you going to stay at home quietly?” he said, fire in his dark eyes as he caught her by the arms just as she was pulling the door handle back.
“No, I’m not!” she said stormily.
For answer he picked her right up in his arms as if she had been Poppet.
“Where shall I put her, Meg? I’m going to lock her up,” he called breathlessly; she was not fragilely light.