There was something in her manner, the indication of a set purpose, which made Philippa doubt whether her intention was merely to get rid of her. On a table near the door stood a set of candelabra, a portion of those used when the great room was lighted up. Royda, from the candle she carried, set herself to light some of these. The action struck Philippa as suspicious. “Why are you doing that?” she asked apprehensively.
“In case this little one should go out by accident,” was the ready answer, given without looking at her questioner. “We should never find our way then in this great dark place.”
The explanation was plausible enough, Philippa thought, as she glanced round the room and the labyrinth of its contents.
“Now!” Royda said, as she set down the candle she had carried and closed the door. Then she turned again to Philippa and, without warning of her intention, dealt her a swift, vicious blow in the face.
“Ah!” Philippa caught her arm, but Royda, struggling like a wild animal, freed herself and sprang back out of reach.
For a few seconds neither spoke, but they stood eyeing each other, Royda in the momentary ebb preparatory to the next dash of her fury, Philippa in astonished anger, not unmixed with relief at this declaration of the other’s intention.
“What do you mean by that?” she demanded indignantly.
With the breaking of the pause, Royda’s passion blazed forth at last without restraint.
“Mean? I mean that I hate you, vile thief and trickster. I thank you for coming here to-night, for you shall give me satisfaction.”
“Satisfaction?” Philippa repeated, almost inclined to laugh at the girls’ exhibition of fury. “For what?”