“I told her to be in for tea.”
“Yes; but I felt sure you couldn't realize how late she was in getting out,” said Bob in a voice of honey.
“That was entirely her own mismanagement—” began the hard tones.
“Oh, no, Mrs. Rainham; really it wasn't,” said Cecilia mildly. “Your accompaniments, you remember—your dress—your music,” she stopped, in amazement at herself. It was rarely indeed that she answered any accusation of her stepmother's. But to be on the mat at midnight, with Bob in support, seemed to give her extraordinary courage.
“You see, Mrs. Rainham, there seems to have been quite a number of little details that Cecilia couldn't mismanage,” said Bob, following up the advantage. It was happily evident that his stepmother's rage was preventing her from speaking, and, as he remarked later, there was no knowing when he would ever get such a chance again. “She really needed rest. I'm sure you'll agree that every one is entitled to some free time. Of course, you couldn't possibly have realized that it was a week since she had been off duty.”
“It's her business to do what I tell her,” said Mrs. Rainham, finding her voice, in an explosive fashion that made a passing policeman glance up curiously. “She knew I had company, and expected her help. I had to see to the children's tea myself. And how do I know where she's been?—gallivanting round to all sorts of places! I tell you, young lady, you needn't think you're going to walk in here at midnight as if nothing was the matter.”
“I never expected to,” said Cecilia cheerfully. “But it was worth it.”
Bob regarded her in solemn admiration.
“I don't think we gallivanted at all reprehensibly,” he said. “Just dinner and a theatre. I haven't made much claim to her time during the last four years, Mrs. Rainham; surely I'm entitled to a little of it now.”
“You!” Mrs. Rainham's tone was vicious. “You don't give her a home, do you? And as long as I do, she'll do what I tell her.”