Then as the little servant-maid was on the point of closing the door, “Tell Miss Jepson,” Aunt Phœbe commanded....
Miss Jepson found Aunt Phœbe out of bed and dressing with a rapid casualness. It was manifest that some great crisis had happened. “An outrage upon all women,” said Aunt Phœbe. “I have been outraged.”
“My dear!” said Miss Jepson.
“Read that telegram!” cried Aunt Phœbe, pointing to a small ball of pink paper in the corner of the room.
Miss Jepson went over to the corner with a perplexed expression, and smoothed out the telegram and read it.
“A Bradshaw and a hansom!” Aunt Phœbe was demanding as she moved rapidly about the room from one scattered garment to another. “No breakfast. I can eat nothing. Nothing. I am a tigress. A maddened tigress. Maddened. Beyond endurance. Oh! Can you reach these buttons, dear?”
Miss Jepson hovered about her guest readjusting her costume in accordance with commonplace standards while Aunt Phœbe expressed herself in Sibylline utterances.
“Children dedicated to the future.... Reek of ancient corruptions.... Abomination of desolation.... The nine fifty-three.... Say half an hour.... Remonstrance.... An avenging sword.... The sword of the Lord and of Gideon.”
“Are you going to this Mr. Sycamore?” asked Miss Jepson suddenly.
Aunt Phœbe seemed lost for a time and emerged with, “Good God!—No! This is an occasion when a woman must show she can act as a man. This tries us, Amanda. I will have no man in this. No man at all! Are women to loll in hareems for ever while men act and fight? When little children are assailed?...”