“Oh, Freddy,” she cried earnestly, “why take the chance of making a bad matter worse?” Even as she uttered the words she realised how stupid, how ineffectual they were.
“It can't be much worse,” he said gloomily. “I am inclined to think he'd relish a straight-out, fair, and square talk, anyhow. Moreover, I mean to take Yvonne to task for the thing she said—or implied last night. About you, I mean. She———”
“Oh, I beg of you, don't!”
“It was—unspeakable. I don't see what could have come over her.”
“She was jealous. She admitted it, dear. If I don't mind, why should you incur———”
“Do you really believe she—she loves the governor enough to be as jealous as all that?” he exclaimed, a curious gleam in his eyes—an expression she did not like.
“Of course I think so!” she cried emphatically. “What a question! Have you any reason to suspect that she does not love your father?”
“No—certainly not,” he said in some confusion. Then, after a moment: “Are you quite sure this headache of yours is real, Lyddy?”
“What do you mean?”
“Isn't it an excuse to stay away from—from Yvonne, after what happened last night? Be honest, dear.”