"I don't know whether I ought to tell you."
"Nonsense. Tell me, of course. Francesca, to wit? Or is it Mittie?"
Julia sat down, just beyond the corner of the escritoire, looking straight at him across it.
"Not Francesca, but Mittie," she said. "I don't mean that Mittie is to blame. She is allowed to chatter with everybody. Only think of the old gardener at the Rectory talking to that child about us—about you—"
"He is welcome!" Harvey said carelessly, as his wife hesitated. The thought of Hermione was not at all in his mind just then.
"You have not heard yet. Talking about Hermione, and actually telling Mittie that you had taken possession of the money which ought to belong to Hermione."
Julia stopped, staring at her husband with wide-open eyes. She had never seen him wear exactly such an expression before as he wore now. The words were evidently startling and unexpected. His face hardened, each feature partaking of a general rigidity, and his colour distinctly lessened.
[CHAPTER XIX.]
THE REAL QUESTION.
HARVEY seemed to be conscious of something in his own look which he could not quite control. He pushed the lamp aside with a hasty gesture, and raised one hand to his forehead, placing it as a half shield between himself and his wife, but he did not speak.