Her voice broke out on a sob. "I _am_ keeping it! Oh, oh, oh! He'll preach and he'll pray, and he'll whine on that old harmonium--and try to convert us, and he'll spy on Grace, and we'll never have any fun any more. And where's he going to sleep? Fusty old thing--he'll snore. Are you going to turn us out of our room for him? Are you? I won't go--I won't go!" "Theresa, we are in difficulties. We want your help." "I won't do anything if you let that George come. What's the good of having money if you're miserable? Religious old pig! I'll tell him I hate the Bible; I'll fetch it and jump on it before him, and--and throw it at him. I will not have my life spoilt--it's wicked! I hate him! I hate you! I loathe his snarly old hymns and his religion. It's all lies. 'Gentle Jesus,' that's the way he says it, watching to see if your eyes are shut. Old beast! If he comes I'll never speak to him. Never, never! You're selfish, you're only thinking of yourselves. Oh----" She stood up, shaking, crying, mad with impotence. She seemed to seek a last explosive word. It came with a wrench from her throat. "It'll be hell, hell, hell!" She made a desperate lunge at her chair, overturned it, kicked it viciously, and rushed from the room. They heard her stumbling up the stairs, noisily, blindly, and at last, the banging of her bedroom door. "She'll kill me," Nancy moaned. * * * * * Theresa lay on her bed in a blackness of misery that absorbed the night's darkness entering the room. She seemed to be lying in a pit out of which she could never be raised. She was not ashamed of her sentiments, but of having uttered them: she regretted not so much her cruelty to her parents as the pitiful display of her own weakness. How could she brave the light and face her father? The questions of her childhood reappeared. Had Bessie heard the clamour? Would she tell Bill? Worst of all, how could she live without thinking happily of herself? She lay there, turning and twisting, gazing through a tunnel-like future, pitch dark without the light of her self-respect. How long before she neared the end and saw a glimmer? Already life had taught her the kindliness of time, but she had not yet learnt patience. How could she wait until custom and forgetfulness had done their work? The minutes went slowly by; the two darknesses covered her. She was a prisoner in the dungeon of her own despair, and, like all prisoners, she began to plan escape. Dare she creep out and pretend nothing had happened? Should she crave a forgiveness hardly desired, or should she offer submission on honourable terms--no mention of her offences, and, beyond all, no Uncle George? She found it impossible to move. How many hours had passed? She was cold. She wondered if Alexander, that recurrent image, were as violent in anger as she; not now, of course, for he was a man, but when he was a boy.