This was the mood her mother disliked—slangy and impertinent. So she summed it up to herself, resenting her daughter's manner.
"It's entirely your own fault if you do. I am quite prepared to help you, Jill. We could easily alter the frock between us. It isn't as if you were really 'out.'"
Jill gave her a quick glance.
"I could make one myself for thirty shillings—I know I could. And it isn't much. I haven't had a new dress this year..." Her grey eyes were wistful.
"It can't be done." At this fresh attack Mrs. Uniacke's mouth tightened—"there's Roddy to think of beside yourself..."
"To say nothing of Stephen's expenses?"
The words escaped Jill against her will. Little she guessed their significance, but Mrs. Uniacke flushed crimson. For a moment she could have boxed Jill's ears.
"That will do." She turned away and, with hands that shook, took up her work, leaning over the torn skirt, her back turned to her daughter.
Jill closed the door behind her. She stood for a moment on the stairs, her dark brows drawn together, her mouth a narrow scarlet line.
"Oh!" she said—"I'd like ... I'd like——" she stamped her foot—"to murder Stephen!"