'Why then you are his mistress, and a kept lady to all intents and purposes: so what signifies argufying the matter? I lived with a kept madam before; and she was as good as you, for aught I know.'
Adeline, shocked and disappointed, told her she might leave the room.
'I am going,' pertly answered Mary, 'and to seek for a place; but I must beg that you will not own you are no better than you should be, when a lady comes to ask my character; for then perhaps I should not get any one to take me. I shall call you Mrs Glenmurray.'
'But I shall not call myself so,' replied Adeline. 'I will not say what is not true, on any account.'
'There now, there's spite! and yet you pretend to call yourself a gentlewoman, and to be better than other kept ladies! Why, you are not worthy to tie the shoestrings of my last mistress—she did not mind telling a lie rather than lose a poor servant a place; and she called herself a married woman rather than hurt me.'
'Neither she nor you, then,' replied Adeline gravely, 'were sensible of what great importance a strict adherence to veracity is, to the interests of society. I am;—and for the sake of mankind I will always tell the truth.'
'You had better tell one innocent lie for mine,' replied the girl pertly. 'I dare to say the world will neither know nor care anything about it: and I can tell you I shall expect you will.'
So saying she shut the door with violence, leaving Adeline mournfully musing on the distress attending on her situation, and even disposed to question the propriety of remaining in it.
The inquietude of her mind, as usual, showed itself in her countenance, and involved her in another difficulty: to make Glenmurray uneasy by an avowal of what had passed between her and Mary was impossible; yet how could she conceal it from him? And while she was deliberating on this point, Glenmurray entered the room, and tenderly inquired what had so evidently disturbed her.
'Nothing of any consequence,' she faltered out, and burst into tears.