"I say, Vera, is the embroidery finished on my Surah polonaise? Because I shall want it to-morrow night to wear to Mrs. Montague's german. Tell your mother I shall want it without fail. I am tired of this shamming sickness. It's nothing but laziness—just that. Did you say it was finished?"
"No," Vera answers her, through her white lips. Ivy springs up tumultuously in the bed.
"Not finished!" she screams, shrilly.
"Scandalous! I tell you I want it to-morrow night! I will have it—you hear! Go and tell your mother to get up this instant and go to work at it. Go and tell her—you hear?"
Vera, with her hands on the latch, and that crimson spot burning dully on her cheeks, answers with sudden, passionate defiance:
"I will not!"
All in a moment Ivy is out of bed, and her small, claw-like fingers clutch Vera's arm, the other hand comes down in a ringing slap on Vera's cheek.
"Take that, little vixen!" she hisses, furiously, "and that, and that! How dare you defy me?"
Vera pushes her off with a sudden passionate defiance.
"Because I am not afraid of you any longer," she says, sharply. "Because poor mamma has escaped you. She is free—she is dead!"