“My dear John,” cried Maude, without temper, for she could not afford to quarrel with him, “my dear John, just consider a moment? What possible object could I have in saying it if it were not true? I should expose myself to all sorts of horrid things, and really deserve to be called spiteful—and nobody can say that of me, really—if I said a thing like that when it was not true. Can’t you see that for yourself?”
But John was blunt to the verge of rudeness.
“I can see that somebody’s been telling lies,” he said abruptly, as he turned on his heel, and fought his way back to where Chris was standing near her mother, who, having obtained one of the much-sought-after chairs, was lost to sight in the crowd of guests who had not been so lucky.
“Miss Christina!” said John Bradfield, not attempting to hide the fact that he was angry, “I’ve got something to say to you. Is it true that you’re carrying on a correspondence with someone?”
Chris turned deadly white, and every spark of animation suddenly left her face. Her mother, who was of necessity so close to her that not a look nor a word could escape her, broke in sharply:
“Chris! why don’t you answer? Ask who said such a thing. But of course I know who it was!”
And Mrs. Abercarne threw a steely glance towards the spot where Mrs. Graham-Shute’s large head could be seen bobbing amongst the throng, like a cork on a surging sea.
Still Chris made no answer, and her mother, suddenly perceiving how white she had grown, grew alarmed.
“Why don’t you deny it, child?” she asked in a low voice, quivering with earnestness, as she rose to whisper in her daughter’s ear.
The tears were in the girl’s eyes. She turned to her mother, and under the pretence of drawing round her shoulders the China crape shawl which Mrs. Abercarne wore as a wrap, she whispered: