"You've promised you won't tell. But I say, what could make her do such a thing? It wasn't like Mamsie! It has made me feel horrid since—I mean, since I guessed what she did . . . Only you must keep my secret, Lettice. I couldn't have her know that I knew. I shouldn't dare."
"A boy—not dare!"
"Oh, but this sort of thing. I'd fight a boy any day, and not care; but I can't tell about this! Lettice, I couldn't! It would be so—Oh, you know! You'll keep my secret?"
"I must. I have promised."
"And you don't mind?"
"Yes, I do mind. Of course I mind—very much. I want to be cleared, more than you can imagine. It is dreadful to have people thinking that one is a thief. But I do not mean to break my word."
"If it were any one else; any one except Mamsie! I shouldn't mind then. I couldn't possibly tell now. I do wonder, though, what made her do such a thing. What could make her?"
"She doesn't like me, and she doesn't like you to love me. That is no real reason, of course; and I don't know any other . . . I think we had better not talk any more of this just now. I shall be saying something I ought not."
"And then you would be sorry, wouldn't you? Lettice, are you cold still? It's getting near teatime. Why don't you come downstairs?"
"No hurry. What did you want me to do for you?" She could not yet face Theodosia.