“Yes, it is; she is blushing,” said another.
But I was not blushing at all; there was nothing to blush about. I said, laughing—
“No, he is not wicked. The village-people think he is, because he plays the violin and goes to races. He is very kind.”
“Oh, we don’t doubt that, my dear!” said Mrs. Clowes, in a demure tone.
“You think I like him only just because he is kind to me,” said I boldly. “But I shouldn’t like him if he were wicked, however kind he might be.”
“And Mrs. Rayner—is she kind and good too?”
“Oh, yes, she is just as kind!” said I.
This was not quite true; but I knew already enough of these people to be sure they would laugh if I said “No;” and it was not poor Mrs. Rayner’s fault that she was not as nice as her husband. Presently Mrs. Cunningham took me to the other end of the room to look at a portrait of Lady Mills.
“It is no business of mine who gave you that pendant, my dear; but have you any more ornaments of the kind, and, if so, where do you keep them?” she said gravely.
“Oh, I have no more!” I answered, a little surprised at her manner. “And I keep this in an old case in the corner of my desk.”