Now, surely, at this late hour of the night, and after so active a day, and with these two young ladies' respective maids wondering _sotto voce_ on the landing outside what on earth it's all about--surely that door-handle might have turned in earnest! But we all know the fire that seems put out with a spark still chuckling in its core at the nice blaze it means to be one day. Perhaps if Sibyl had said "I ss--see" with less of suggestion that some human frailty undefined had been sighted by her shrewdness, and had commanded her sympathy; and perhaps (even more) if she had abstained from saying to herself, "I thought it was that," in a voice that was evidently intended to be heard, yet to seem inaudible--perhaps the fire would not have broken out again. As it was, the door-handle had a relapse, and its manipulator said rather sharply: "Thought it was what?" "The Stage," was the reply. "Oh yes, Ju!--I know all about it; so you needn't look like a Tragedy Queen. Pray disgrace your family! Good-night, dear." "Sibyl, you are a thoroughly selfish woman ... did you say _why_? Why--because you are indulging all your own fancies--just flinging away hundreds on all sorts of useless fads, and all the while opposing me in a reasonable wish--for it _is_ reasonable to wish to give it a trial--because of a miserable, old-fashioned prejudice against a profession which at least is as respectable as hammering little copper pots and making little bits of fussy enamelled jewellery. I can't tell you how _sick_ I get of hearing of it all...." Anger at mere impertinence does not involve a flush, like resentment against a charge of misdemeanour on a point of delicacy. But one can go white with anger, and Judith's change of colour may be due to it, as she says what she evidently means to be her last word. Sibyl tries to deprive it of a last word's advantage.