“Yes, I know, that will be the opportunity for giving him the amethysts. Come, dearest, and let me give you the note. And, Amethyst, Lucian, of course, mustn’t guess at this little contretemps. You promise?”
Amethyst shrank again. She could not have told Lucian of her mother’s—what?—shame seemed too strong a word—discredit? Yet to promise secrecy towards him went against her, but at her mother’s desire, it never struck her that it was wrong.
“Yes, mamma,” she said confusedly, and followed Lady Haredale into the house, directed the envelope in the modern, upright, school-girl hand, which certainly bore no resemblance to Lady Haredale’s sloping penmanship, and prepared to take it to the post-office. As she came down-stairs she saw Tory standing in the hall, her legs apart and her hands behind her back.
“Amethyst,” she said, “Kat and I mean you to know. It’s quite true what I said just now. Una’s gone nearly off her head over Tony getting married. She’s a perfect fool about him. But it’s his fault, he’s an awful spoon is Tony. So is she; you’d better go and talk to her.”
“But—she’s a child,” said Amethyst; so much taken aback, that she forgot that the precocious Tory was more of a child still.
“Oh—little girls are amusing. He thought it didn’t matter. Una ought to have known it was nonsense.”
“But mother said it was nonsense, just now—of Una’s.”
“Very likely. That’s what she would think.”
Amethyst turned and fled. She felt as if she could neither speak nor look. A horror seized her of “kind good Tony,” and she ran across the park, in haste to get the note addressed to him out of her hand.
As she was about to put it into the box, Sylvester Riddell came up with a handful of letters.