"I suppose he meant that if you weren't absolutely obliged to get or keep some job——" the Major began.
"That's what he meant; and there's a lot in it, isn't there, Major Merriam?"
"Well, it's not what we're taught at school, but perhaps there is."
"More luxuries for the rich," smiled Mrs. Lenoir.
"The Radicals can make a new grievance out of it at the next election," said the General.
Of course, the two men did not know what underlay Winnie's talk. Equally of course, Mrs. Lenoir did; she saw it in a minute, and her reading hardly needed the confirmation of Bertie's glum demeanour. Winnie was in rebellion—probably in irreconcilable rebellion. Mrs. Lenoir glanced across at her with a satirically protesting smile. Winnie smiled back, but her eyes were resolute—rather merrily resolute, as though she liked this new taste of her favourite cup of defiance.
"There are times and seasons," said Mrs. Lenoir. "Isn't there even a thing called the economy of truth? I don't think I know the exact doctrine."
"You wouldn't tell a child everything—or a fool either," observed the General.
"Would you choose the wrong time to tell the truth to anybody?" Mrs. Lenoir asked.
"Are you entitled to settle what's the right time—all by yourself?" Winnie retorted gaily. Her spirits had begun to rise. This was almost like a discussion at Shaylor's Patch. There was a deeper reason. With her determination had come a sense of recovered honesty, and, more, of liberty regained. Whatever the Merriams might think, she would be herself again—herself and no longer Miss Winnie Wilson, a young person whom, in the last week or so, she had begun to hate cordially.