‘It won’t bother us,’ Sir William was declaring. ‘Only keep us indoors here, and anyhow we don’t want to go out.’
She hastened to agree, and told herself not to be so foolish. A foot or two of water, a few tumbling rocks outside, a little space of darkness, that was all, and what were they? The trouble really was, she ought to be asleep, dreaming. There came a fancy that it was the dreaming part of her, now awake and active, that was taking hold of her experience, turning it into queer stuff, flashing baleful lights upon it. They were now both drifting away from the window, going back to the fire again.
The opening of a door behind turned them round. Could it be Philip at last? No, it was Miss Femm. She came in with a candle in one hand and with the other outstretched, a finger pointing at Margaret.
‘You opened it, didn’t you?’ she screamed, accusingly. ‘Well, you can go and shut it now, go and shut it. I can’t. No time to lose either. It’s down on us, coming in too, I expect, in the cellars.’
Margaret couldn’t find a word. She felt rather sick. Sir William, however, took charge of the situation. ‘What’s this?’ he called, with some sternness.
‘The floods, of course!’ cried Miss Femm. ‘All round us.’
‘Yes, I know that,’ he returned. ‘But what’s this about opening and shutting?’
‘My window.’ She pointed to Margaret again. ‘She must have opened it, and now she can shut it. I’m being swamped out.’
Margaret found her voice. ‘I’m sorry.’ Then she turned to Sir William and lowered her voice. ‘I’m afraid I opened the window in her room. That’s what she means.’
‘Is that all? Well, I’ll go and close it for her,’ he replied, to her relief. ‘All right,’ he shouted, nodding to Miss Femm. ‘I’ll come and shut it.’