“No, you don't, my fine lady. Wilfred's gone for the Pater—he'll be here presently. You just stay there quietly till he comes.”
“Avice!” The word was a wail. “Oh, you don't know how important it is—let me out. I'll give you anything in the world.”
“So'll Mater if I stop your little game,” said Avice. “You just keep quiet.”
Eliza's sharp little face appeared at the foot of the flight of stairs.
“Wot's up, Miss Avice? Anyfink wrong with Miss 'Cilia?”
“Nothing to do with you,” said Avice rudely. “I'm looking after her.” But Cecilia's sharp ears had caught the new voice.
“Eliza! Eliza!” she called.
The girl came up the stairs uncertainly. Avice rose to confront her.
“Now, you just keep off,” she said. “You're not coming past here. The master'll be home directly, and till he comes, no one's going up these stairs.” She raised her voice, to drown that of Cecilia, who was speaking again.
Eliza looked at her doubtfully. She was an undersized, wizened little Cockney, and Avice was a big, stoutly-built girl—who held, moreover, the advantage of a commanding position on the top step. In an encounter of strength there was little doubt as to who would win. She turned in silence, cowed, and went down to the kitchen, while Avice sang a triumphant song, partly as a chant of victory, and partly to make sure that no one would hear the remarks that Cecilia was steadily making. She herself had caught one phrase—“Tell my brother”—and her sharp little mind was busy. Did that mean that Bob would be coming, against its mistress's orders, to Lancaster Gate.