“It will keep, I’m sure,” cried May, with the scared look intensifying.
“No, dearest, it will not keep, for it is something very serious—so serious that I would not have our father know it for the world.”
“Lack-a-day, Claire,” cried Mrs Burnett, with assumed mirth forming pleasant dimples in her sweet childish face, “what is the matter?”
“I wanted to say a few words of warning to you, May dear. You know how ready people are to gossip?”
“Good lack, yes, indeed they are. But what—?” she faltered, “what—?”
“And several times lately they have been busy with your name.”
“With my name!” cried Mrs Burnett, with a forced laugh, and a sigh of relief.
“Yes, dear, about little bits of freedom, and—and—I don’t like to call it coquetry. I want you, dearest, to promise me that you will be a little more staid. Dear May, it pains me more than I can say.”
“Frump! frump! frump! Why you silly, weak, quakerish old frump, Claire! What nonsense to be sure! A woman in my position, asked out as I am to rout, and kettledrum, and ball, night after night, cannot sit mumchance against the wall, and mumble scandal with the old maids. Now, I wonder who has been putting all this in your head?”
“I will not repeat names, dear; but it is some one whom I can trust.”