“And whatever you do,” I said, “if you must tease, tell the truth.”
“That was the truth,” she replied.
“Don’t be such a wicked story,” I exclaimed. “I don’t believe it.”
I could not help thinking, after, that in my childish anger I had made use of childish language.
“I don’t care what you believe, and what you don’t believe,” said Clara, coolly; “and I’ve got—”
“If you young ladies are not silent this minute,” said Miss Furness, outside the door, “I shall be compelled to summon Mrs de Blount.”
As I lay wondering whether she had heard anything of our conversation, and what it was that Clara had got, and whether it was a letter Achille had sent her before I came, which I did not believe, and did not much care if he had, for he had not seen me then—Miss Furness stood listening at the door, while Clara would not answer my whispered questions, pretending to be offended; and I believe I heard Miss Furness sniff out in the cold passage just as I dropped off to sleep.