CHAPTER VIII. — THE MORAL OF IT
Left alone with Mrs. Blunt, Agatha sank into the nearest chair.
“A very handsome young man, isn’t he?” asked the good lady, pushing a chair back into its place. “He’ll be an acquisition, I think.”
Agatha made no answer, and Mrs. Blunt, glancing at her, found her devouring the carpet with a stony stare.
“What on earth’s the matter, child?”
“I’m the wretchedest wickedest girl alive,” declared Agatha.
“Good gracious!”
“Mrs. Blunt, who do you think was in the summer-house when Mr. Merceron went there?”
“My dear, are you ill? You jump about so from subject to subject.”
“It’s all one subject, Mrs. Blunt. There was a girl there.”