Knowing this, and feeling the roof that covers papa to be, in his present state, unsafe, I steal noiselessly to the hall door and, opening it, find refuge in the outer air. As evening falls, however, I am warned of the approach of dinner-hour, and, returning to the house, am safely up the stairs, when Billy comes to meet me, his face full of indignant information. "It is a beastly shame," he says, in a subdued whisper, "and I would not submit to it if I were you. When luncheon was over, Dora went to papa and told him she would not go to Aunt Martha; and when papa raged and insisted, she began to blubber as usual, and said if you were to take her place it would do just as well; and of course papa jumped at the idea, knowing it would be disagreeable, and says you _shall_ go." "What!" cry I, furious at this new piece of injustice. "I shall, shall I? He'll see!" I turn from my brother with an ominous expression on my lips, and move towards my bedroom door. The action means, "Not words, but deeds." "That's right," says Billy, following close in the character of a backer-up, and openly delighted at the prospect of a scrimmage. "Fight it out. I would give the governor plenty of cheek if I were you; he wants it badly. It's a shame, that's what it is; and you engaged and all! And what will Carrington say? Do you know"--mysteriously--"it is my opinion Miss Dora thinks she could get inside you, if you were once out of the way? She was always a sneak; so I would not give in on any account. But"--despondingly--"you will never have the pluck to go through with it when it comes to the point. I know you won't." "I will," I return, gazing back at him with stern determination in my eyes, and then I go into my room to prepare for dinner, leaving him both astonished and pleased at my new-found courage. In this defiant mood I dress and go downstairs. All through dinner Dora is more than usually agreeable. She smiles continually, and converses gayly in her pretty, low-toned elegant way. To me she is particularly attentive, and is apparently deaf to the silence with which I receive her remarks. Nothing is said on the expected subject of Aunt Martha until it is nearly time for us to retire to the drawing-room, and I am almost beginning to fear the battle will be postponed, when papa, turning to me, says, carelessly, and as though it were a matter of no importance:-- "As Dora dislikes the idea of going to your aunts, Phyllis, at this time of year, we have decided on sending you for a month in her place." "But I dislike the idea too," I reply, as calmly as rage will let me. "That is to be regretted, as I will not have your aunts offended. You are the youngest, and must give way." "But the invitation was not sent to me." "That will make little difference, and a sufficient excuse can be offered for Dora. As your marriage does not come off until late in the autumn, there is no reason why you should remain at home all the summer."