Josephine could only glare. She had the most extraordinary feeling that
she had just escaped something simply awful. But how could she explain to
Constantia that father was in the chest of drawers? He was in the top
drawer with his handkerchiefs and neckties, or in the next with his shirts
and pyjamas, or in the lowest of all with his suits. He was watching
there, hidden away--just behind the door-handle--ready to spring.

She pulled a funny old-fashioned face at Constantia, just as she used to in
the old days when she was going to cry.

"I can't open," she nearly wailed.

"No, don't, Jug," whispered Constantia earnestly. "It's much better not
to. Don't let's open anything. At any rate, not for a long time."

"But--but it seems so weak," said Josephine, breaking down.

"But why not be weak for once, Jug?" argued Constantia, whispering quite
fiercely. "If it is weak." And her pale stare flew from the locked
writing-table--so safe--to the huge glittering wardrobe, and she began to
breathe in a queer, panting away. "Why shouldn't we be weak for once in
our lives, Jug? It's quite excusable. Let's be weak--be weak, Jug. It's
much nicer to be weak than to be strong."

And then she did one of those amazingly bold things that she'd done about
twice before in their lives: she marched over to the wardrobe, turned the
key, and took it out of the lock. Took it out of the lock and held it up
to Josephine, showing Josephine by her extraordinary smile that she knew
what she'd done--she'd risked deliberately father being in there among his
overcoats.