There were sounds of steps hurrying along the passage, and then there was a great scream of the wind and a great whirl of the notepaper and a great blowing up on end off her forehead of her short hair, and Lizzie was there panting on the threshold. 'I'm sorry, sir,' she panted, her hand on her chest, 'I was changing my dress----' 'Shut the door, can't you?' cried Wemyss, about whose ears, too, notepaper was flying. 'Hold on to it--don't let it go, damn you!' 'Oh--oh----' gasped Lucy, stretching out her hands as though to keep something off, 'I think I--I think I'll go downstairs----' And before Wemyss realised what she was doing, she had turned and slipped through the door Lizzie was struggling with and was gone. 'Lucy!' he shouted, 'Lucy! Come back at once!' But the wind was too much for Lizzie, and the door dragged itself out of her hands and crashed to. As though the devil were after her Lucy ran along the passage. Down the stairs she flew, down past the bedroom landing, down past the gong landing, down into the hall and across it to the front door, and tried to pull it open, and found it was bolted, and tugged and tugged at the bolts, tugged frantically, getting them undone at last, and rushing out on to the steps. There an immense gust of rain caught her full in the face. Splash--bang--she was sobered. The rain splashed on her as though a bucket were being emptied at her, and the door had banged behind her shutting her out. Suddenly horrified at herself she turned quickly, as frantic to get in again as she had been to get out. What was she doing? Where was she running to? She must get in, get in--before Everard could come after her, before he could find her standing there like a drenched dog outside his front door. The wind whipped her wet hair across her eyes. Where was the handle? She couldn't find it. Her hair wouldn't keep out of her eyes; her thin serge skirt blew up like a balloon and got in the way of her trembling fingers searching along the door. She must get in--before he came--what had possessed her? Everard--he couldn't have meant--he didn't mean--what would he think--what _would_ he think--oh, where was that handle? Then she heard heavy footsteps on the other side of the door, and Wemyss's voice, still very loud, saying to somebody he had got with him, 'Haven't I given strict orders that this door is to be kept bolted?'--and then the sound of bolts being shot. 'Everard! Everard!' Lucy cried, beating on the door with both hands, 'I'm here--out here--let me in--Everard! Everard!' But he evidently heard nothing, for his footsteps went away again.