“Louis, you haven't been telling tales and making mischief?” cried Reginald.
“I don't know,” said Louis. “I said something to Mrs. Paget, I believe—I didn't know there was any harm. Hamilton didn't say he didn't want any thing said about it.”
“Didn't say!” echoed Jones, scornfully.
Hamilton's look was more in reproach than anger. Louis felt struck to the heart with shame and anger; but so much had he lately been nursed in conceit and self-sufficiency, that he drove away the better impulse; and, instead of at once acknowledging himself in the wrong and begging pardon, he stood still, endeavoring to look unconcerned, repeating, “I didn't mean any harm.”
“Oh, Louis!” exclaimed Reginald, reproachfully, “I didn't think you could.”
“Let the boy go, Jones,” said Hamilton, trying to remove the grasp from Louis' shoulders.
“Not so fast, an't please your majesty,” said Jones: “I like to see hypocrites unmasked. Here, gentlemen, forsooth, here in this soonified youth, the anxious warden of Ferrers' reputation, you see the young gentleman who not only tells the story, but gives the name of the party concerned to a dear, good, gossiping soul—”
“Gently, gently there, Jones,” remarked Norman.
“A gossiping old soul,” repeated Jones, “who'd have the greatest delight in retailing the news, with decorations and additions, all over the kingdom with the greatest possible speed.”
“I don't believe a word of that, Jones,” said Reginald. “It is impossible!”