“Well, my dear, and if there was? Boys will be boys; and I’m sure there was no harm.”
“No harm! Oh!”
“Agatha, are you crazy?” demanded Mrs. Blunt, with an access of sternness.
“Could I fancy,” pursued Agatha, in despairing playfulness mimicking Uncle Van’s manner, “how Miss Bushell looked, and how Victor looked, and how everybody looked? Could I fancy it? Why, I was there!”
“There! Where?”
“Why, in that wretched little temple. I was the girl, Mrs. Blunt. I—I—I was the milkmaid, as Mr. Sutton says. I was the country wench! Oh dear! oh dear! oh dear!”
Mrs. Blunt, knowing her sex, held out a bottle of salts.
“I’m not mad,” said Agatha.
“You’re nearly hysterical.”
Agatha took a long sniff.