“I won’t stand it,” she said to herself. “It is awfully unfair. She has no right to do it.”
Phyllis ran to the door, shook it, and began to cry out:
“Open the door, please. Somebody come and open the door. I am here; Phyllis is here.”
But nobody answered because nobody heard her. Suddenly she thought of the bell. She ran to it and rang it over and over again; but as Miss Fleet had given positive directions that no one was to approach poor Phyllis in her imprisonment, there was no reply. The fire was now very nearly out.
“Well,” said Phyllis to herself, “at this rate she’ll kill me. I’ll be found frozen to death in the morning; and, oh, I am so hungry!”
But just then, before her physical sufferings could get any worse, there came a slow step on the carpet outside. The door was unlocked, and Miss Fleet, bearing a lamp in her hand, entered.
She laid the lamp on the centre table; she then went over and rang the bell. Phyllis stood facing her. Her face was tear-stained and very pale; her eyes flashed an angry light.
“I can run past you,” she said, “and get out of this room.”
“You can,” said Miss Fleet, just glancing at her and then bending down to adjust the flame of the lamp, “but you won’t.”
A servant appeared at the door.