“I don’t blame you,” said Sophie, easily, as moving back to the table she resumed kneading the dough. “In your place I would probably have tried something of the same kind. If I were you I’d go and put that thing back, and settle down. It’ll be easier for you if you are a good girl.”

Penelope’s fingers loosened, and the poker fell with a thud to the floor. There were tears of chagrin in her eyes.

“You go and lie down, and have a nice sleep, now,” went on Sophie with motherly complacency. “You haven’t so much to worry about, anyhow. No need to try and murder the only person about the place of your own sex. If I was gone, things might be so very much worse for you.”

She spoke, as it might be, to a self-willed child. There was no suspicion of resentment in her tone, but rather a tolerant assumption that any outburst by the girl was foredoomed to failure. Penelope dropped into a chair, and her grave grey eyes scrutinised the other with deliberation.