“What am I to say, Agnes?” cried the girl. She had become quite excited at the new complexion that had been assumed by the question of publishing the book. “What am I to say? I am afraid of my own shortcomings.”
“If Mr. Westwood is not afraid of them, you certainly need not be,” said Agnes. “For my own part I quite see how much better it would be for him to have an artist working by his side and in accordance with his own instructions, than it would be to have the most accomplished of draughtsmen working at a distance.”
“I'm fearfully afraid, but I would do anything for the sake of seeing the book published,” said Clare.
“Then the compact is made,” cried Claude. “Give me your hand, Clare, Now, Agnes, you are witness to the compact.”
“Yes, I am a witness to this compact—the second one made in this room,” said Agnes quietly. They had by this time left the dining-room and were standing round the fire in the drawing-room.
“The second compact—the second?” said he, as though he were trying to recall the previous compact.
“Agnes alludes to the compact she and I made in this room yesterday,” said Clare. “We agreed that if we did not become friends we should part without ceremony before we got to hate each other—it was something like that, was it not, Agnes?”
“Yes, I think that is an excellent definition of the compact made between you and me—not in the presence of witnesses,” said Agnes.
“A very sensible compact, too, if I know anything about women,” said Claude.
“And you do know something about women, do you not?” said Agnes.