"Oh, dear!" sighed Marjorie, her mind travelling back to all her misdemeanours. "What can it be? I hope not the cycling."
But it was. There was an amused flash in her mother's eyes, while Mrs. Lytchett's lips looked as though they were carved in stone, so very determined was her aspect.
"I hope it isn't true, Marjorie, what I hear?" she said in aggrieved tones.
"What is that?" asked Marjorie.
"Three of those horrid bicycles passed me this afternoon close, whirling by at a furious pace. I had been to the Deanery, to tell Charity how sorry the Bishop was to miss her music. She wasn't in; and passing the garden entrance—the garden entrance—ah, I see it is true!"
For Marjorie's aspect was unmistakable. It was one of guilt. She did nothing, but sat down in a somewhat limp manner in the chair near which she stood, and looked blankly at her inquisitor.
"So I asked; I could scarcely believe my eyes. That young footman was lounging near; I suppose he was waiting for the bicycles, wasting his time. And he said you have all been riding a long time."
"Not so very long," Marjorie answered in excusing accents. "Only about a month."
Mrs. Bethune laughed, though she looked at Marjorie anxiously. When they were not too bitter, she enjoyed the humour of the encounters between Mrs. Lytchett and Marjorie. Generally the latter showed fight; but all that day she had been unusually quiet.
"I thought you knew how much the Bishop and I hated the horrid things."