"Let him alone, Penelope," she says, sadly. "Perhaps he has some good reason: let us not press him too far. Obduracy is better than falsehood. Let us go and pray that heaven may soften his heart and grant him a right understanding."
With this the two old ladies walk slowly and with dignity from the room, leaving the criminal with his sisters.
Monica bursts into tears and flings her arms round his neck. "You did it for me. I know it!—I saw it in your eyes," she says. "Oh, Terence, I feel as if it was all my fault."
"Fiddlesticks!" says Mr. Beresford, who is in a boiling rage. "Did you ever hear anything like her? and all about a paltry thing like that! She couldn't behave worse if I had been convicted of murder. I'm convinced"—viciously—"it was all baffled curiosity that got up her temper. She was dying to know about that gun, and so I was determined I wouldn't gratify her. A regular old cat, if ever there was one."
"Oh, no! don't speak like that; I am sure they love you—and they were disappointed—and——"
"They'll have to get through a good deal of disappointment," says Terence, still fuming. "What right have they to make me out a Sir Galahad in their imaginations? I'd perfectly hate to be a Sir Galahad; and so I tell them." This is not strictly correct as the Misses Blake are out of hearing. "And as for their love, they may keep it, if it only means blowing a fellow up for nothing."
"Aunt Penelope was just as bad," says Kit. "I really"—with dignified contempt—"felt quite ashamed of her!"
Miss Priscilla keeps a diary, in which she most faithfully records all that happens in every one of the three hundred and sixty-five days of every year.
About this time there may be seen in it an entry such as follows: