There was a sound of rustling skirts hurrying downstairs. Then some one brushed the man aside and seized Phyllis's two ungloved hands, one of which still held the deplorable suit case.
"My dear, my dear, however did you get here?"
It was Monica. Then she turned angrily upon the discomforted footman as she drew the girl into the house.
"How dare you keep this lady standing out on the door-step? How dare you? It's an outrage. It is an outrage I won't permit in my house. I never heard of such a thing."
Then she turned upon the scared-faced boy, waiting just behind her.
"Tell the housekeeper I wish to see her in the library in an hour's time." Then, in a moment, she was back again to Phyllis. "Come along, dear. Come up to my room, and get your things off. Henson will see to your grip."
But Phyllis clung to the suit case, which she was growing to hate more and more every moment. She was sure now that it had had something to do with the rude treatment she had been subjected to.
"But I—I can carry it, M—Mrs. Hendrie," she cried, the inevitable "mam" nearly slipping out in spite of her best efforts.
Monica laughed. She remembered how she, herself, had felt once upon a time facing an army of servants.
"Very well, dear," she said gently, "but come along."