"It is a horrid shame, Lettice. That is all I can say. And you are the dearest little angel to bear it as you do. There—now you know what I think."
"Ah, you can't tell how I have often felt. Anything but angelic!"
"I can only toll how you haven't acted. I couldn't have borne it so in your place, that is certain. Never mind. Your brother understands, and so do we. So would anybody that really knows you, as mother and Prue and I do. Those people near Bristol don't signify. If I were you, I would just ignore their existence. A set of—"
"O no; I am very fond of uncle Maurice, and of Keith."
"So much the more shame for them. To treat you in such a way; you, with that dear little transparent face of yours. How anybody, with a grain of commonsense in his brain, could look at you for half a second, and believe that you could do such a thing—! It's perfectly insane!"
"I don't think your nursing-work has tamed you down yet," Lettice said, smiling.
Bertha's eager defence could not but be pleasant.
"It never will—if that means turning me into an automaton. I'm subdued enough in a sick room; but I hope I always shall have a little indignation to explode on injustice . . . Now I won't talk of that any more, or I shall be saying too much . . . Though I don't see that any blame could be too strong . . . To turn to something else. What do you think of Prue?"
"Of Prue?"
"Yes. Is she well? Is she happy?"