A red spot flamed in each of Cecilia's white cheeks.
“Stand out of my way, you little horrors!” she said angrily. She caught up her things and advanced upon them.
“I'm hanged if you're going,” said Wilfred doggedly. He pushed her back violently, and slammed the door.
The attic doors in Lancaster Gate, like those of many London houses, were fitted with heavy iron bolts on the outside—a precaution against burglars who might enter the house by rooms ordinarily little used. It was not the first time that Cecilia had been bolted into her room by her step-brother. When first she came, it had been a favourite pastime to make her a prisoner—until their mother had made it an offence carrying a heavy penalty, since it had often occurred that Cecilia was locked up when she happened to need her.
But this time Cecilia heard the heavy bolt shoot home with feelings of despair. It was already time for her to leave the house. Bob would be waiting for her in Bond Street, impatiently scanning each crowd of passengers that the lift shot up from underground. She battered at the door wildly.
“Let me out! How dare you, Wilfred? Let me out at once!”
Wilfred laughed disagreeably.
“Not if we know it—eh, Avice?”
“Rather not,” said Avice. “What d'you think Mater'd say to us if we let you run away?”
“Nonsense!” said Cecilia, controlling her voice with difficulty. “I was going to meet Bob.”