"It's not right! It's not right! You've got all the house! Every room is yours and you grudge me that one! Nobody's ever wanted it but me! It's mine! You've got your lovely rooms--drawing-room, and dining-room, and morning-room, and bedroom, and summerhouse, and the boys have got the nursery and the maids have got the kitchen, and yet you won't let me have the attic! It's not fair! It's mean! Why can't cook have the other attic? Not this one! Not this one!" "But why? Why?" Mrs. Denny was more bewildered than angry. She looked down at her step-daughter as a St. Bernard looks at an aggressive kitten. Desperately Louise tore off her veils. "Because of Mother. Can't you understand? All her things are there. She's there! So I've always played up there. Oh, won't you understand?" Mrs. Denny flushed. "You talk a lot of nonsense, Louise. Finish your sandwiches. You'll be late." "Then you will leave it, as it is?" "Certainly not. I told you--I need it for cook." Louise turned to her father with a frenzied gesture. "Father! Don't let her! Don't let her touch it! Oh, how can you let her touch it?" Mr. Denny put down his paper, staring from one to the other. "Emma? What's she driving at?" "To control the household, apparently. She's a very impertinent child," said Mrs. Denny impatiently. "Father! I'm not! I don't! Father! I only want her to leave my attic alone! Father----" "Don't worry your father now," began Mrs. Denny. "He's my father! I can speak to him if I choose," cried Louise shrilly. "Now then, now then!" reasoned Mr. Denny heavily. "Can't have you rude to your mother, you know." Louise gave herself up to her passion. "She's not my mother! I call her Mamma! She's not my mother! Mother wouldn't be so cruel! To take away all I've got like that. Her books are there! Her things! It's always been our room--hers and mine! And to take it away! To put cook--it's horrible! It's wicked! It's stealing! I hate her! I hate you--all of you! I'll never forget--never--never--never!" She stopped abruptly on a high note, stared blindly at the outraged countenances that opposed her, and fled from the room. They listened to the clatter of umbrellas in the hall stand, to the furious hands fumbling for mackintosh and satchel, to the bang of the hall door. Mr. Denny whistled. "Hot stuff! What? I never knew she had it in her." There was a curious element of approval in his tone. He respected volubility.