“You wretch!” exclaimed Agatha, reading over her shoulder. “And your father is an admiral!”
“I think it is only fair,” said Miss Lindsay, quailing, but assuming the tone of a moralist. “It is perfectly true.”
“All my money was made in trade,” said Agatha; “but I should be ashamed to save myself by shifting blame to your aristocratic shoulders. You pitiful thing! Here: give me the pen.”
“I will strike it out if you wish; but I think—”
“No: it shall stay there to witness against you. Now see how I confess my faults.” And she wrote, in a fine, rapid hand:
“This evening Gertrude Lindsay and Jane Carpenter met me at the top of the stairs, and said they wanted to slide down the banisters and would do it if I went first. I told them that it was against the rules, but they said that did not matter; and as they are older than I am, I allowed myself to be persuaded, and did.”
“What do you think of that?” said Agatha, displaying the page.
They read it, and protested clamorously.
“It is perfectly true,” said Agatha, solemnly.
“It’s beastly mean,” said Jane energetically. “The idea of your finding fault with Gertrude, and then going and being twice as bad yourself! I never heard of such a thing in my life.”