"Well, then, open the door. I want to come in."
After a moment the door was opened and Ethel stood there in a very
becoming peignoir. She looked extremely disconcerted and did her best
to block the way into the room.
But that wouldn't do for Peter. "What's all this?" he asked. "We lock
our door now, do we?"
"Yes, sometimes," said Ethel. "Why aren't you at the theatre?" She shot
a surreptitious glance towards the window, which was open.
"I've been having a talk with mother," said Peter. "Hello! I see you've
been trigging up your room. Frightfully swagger now, isn't it. New art,
eh? You're coming on, my dear, there's no mistake about that. I'm afraid
you find us all appallingly provincial, don't you?"
The broad grin on Peter's face was no new thing to Ethel. He had always
pulled her leg and treated her as though she were a sort of freak. All
the same, she liked his coming in and was flattered to know that he
thought it worth while to bother about her. But she began to edge him to
the door. He had come at a most unpropitious moment.
"Oh ho!" said Peter. "So this's what higher education does for you? A
nice mixture--cigarettes and candies--I must say. Now I know why you
locked your door. With a marshmallow in one hand and an Egyptian Beauty
in the other you lie on your sofa in the latest thing in peignoirs and
see life through the pages of,--what?" He picked up a book from the
table. "Good Lord!" he added; "you don't mean to say you stuff this
piffle into you?" It was a collection of plays by Strindberg.
"Oh, go to the theatre!" said Ethel. "You're being horridly Oxford now
and I hate it."
"You'll get a lot more of it before I've done with you," said Peter.
"All the same, you look very nice, my dear. I'm very proud of you, and I
hope you will do me the honour to be seen about with me sometimes. But
how about taking some of that powder off your nose? If you begin trying
to hide it at sixteen it'll be lost altogether at twenty." He made a
sudden pounce at her and holding both her hands so that she could not
scratch, rubbed all the powder away from her little proud nose and made
for the door, just missing the cushion which came flying after him, and
took himself and his big laugh along the passage.
Immensely relieved at being left alone, Ethel locked the door again and
went over to her dressing-table, where she repaired damage with quick,
deft fingers. With another glance at the window,--a glance in which
there was some impatience,--she arranged herself on the settee to wait.