Stuyvesant, in his rancour, would draw an ugly picture of her midnight adventure. He would, no doubt, feel inspired to add a few conclusions of his own. Her word, opposed to his, would have no effect on the verdict of the indulgent mother. She would stand accused and convicted of conduct unbecoming a governess! For, after all, Thomas Trotter was a chauffeur, and she couldn't make anything nobler out of him without saying that he wasn't Thomas Trotter at all.
She arose the next morning with a splitting headache, and the fear of Stuyvesant in her soul.
He was waiting for her in the hall below. The twins were accorded an unusually affectionate greeting by their big brother. He went so far as to implant a random kiss on the features of each of the "brats," as he called them in secret. Then he roughly shoved them ahead into the breakfast-room.
Fastening his gaze upon the pale, unsmiling face of Miss Emsdale, he whispered:
"Don't worry, my dear. Mum's the word."
He winked significantly. Revolted, she drew herself up and hurried after the children, unpleasantly conscious of the leer of admiration that rested upon her from behind.
He was very gay at breakfast.
"Mum's the word," he repeated in an undertone, as he drew back her chair at the conclusion of the meal. His lips were close to her ear, his hot breath on her cheek, as he bent forward to utter this reassuring remark.