Storms raged in teacups, confidences were violated, the identical Ethel who had sworn Lydia to secrecy on the May and Daisy quarrel, found herself taxed with various indiscreet utterances and sent to Coventry.
“Well, it was Edith who told me, and she said May Holt was a liar, what’s more,” sobbed Ethel, in counter-accusation that availed her nothing, although it raised fresh and terrible issues between herself and Edith, and again between Edith and May Holt, and all May Holt’s partisans.
Lydia listened to it all, and thought how clever she had been to keep clear of all this trouble.
It was a thing always to be remembered—the unwisdom of uttering opinions that would probably be repeated to their object—never, never to say anything that could not be safely repeated without making for one an enemy.
Lydia silently added this conviction to her increasing store of worldly wisdom.
So she welcomed the confidences of the other girls, most of whom seemed quite unable to prevent themselves from talking, and she was at the same time very careful never to render herself unpopular by mischief-making or by carrying backwards and forwards any of their indiscreet utterances.
“You can always trust Lydia,” said one or two of the girls.
And once she heard one of them exclaim:
“I’ve never heard Lydia Raymond say an unkind word about anybody.”
It sounded very sweet and charitable, but Lydia, with a sense of humour not unlike her grandfather’s, had a little grim, private laugh at the irony of it.