"I say, Celia," he said presently, "there's something I want to speak to you about. Was it you, by any chance, who had been reading that novel which Wag tore up?"
"What makes you ask that?" Celia questioned, the colour flooding her face.
"Never mind. Tell me—was it you?"
"No."
Celia spoke the lie direct, with a boldness which almost astonished herself. Eric looked relieved, for the bare suspicion that Celia had allowed Joy to suffer for her fault had been repugnant to him.
"Then I suppose the book really must have belonged to one of the servants after all!" he exclaimed. "But I know you do read literature of that sort. Putty saw you in a shop the other day with Lulu Tillotson looking over a lot of trashy novels."
"Putty saw me!" Celia cried, wrathfully. "What right had he to spy on me?"
"He was not spying on you. He was in the shop with Mr. Cole, and he couldn't help seeing you. I don't think mother would like you to read silly books like—"
"Oh, Eric, you won't tell her!"
"Am I a sneak, Celia? But, you oughtn't to read what you know she would disapprove of. It isn't straight of you. I don't believe you'd have done it a year ago."