“And pray why not, Lucy?”
“Has he not been ill and troubled enough without being made anxious about such a piece of nonsense as this?”
“But I am hearing of it from all sides; and, see here.”
Mrs Alleyne handed a letter to her daughter, and Lucy turned it over in her trembling fingers while she stood flushed and indignant before her mother.
“All I can say is,” said Mrs Alleyne, “that if you have carried on this wretched flirtation with the betrothed of the girl you called your friend, it is most disgraceful.”
“I tell you again, mamma, it is not true,” cried Lucy passionately. “Oh, why will you not believe me!”
“Read that letter,” said Mrs Alleyne sternly.
Lucy’s eyes fell upon the paper, and then she snatched them away, but only to look at it again and read the stereotyped form of anonymous letter from a true friend, asking whether Mrs Alleyne was aware that her daughter was in the habit of meeting Captain Rolph at night, etc., etc., etc.
“How can anyone write such a scandalous untruth!” cried Lucy passionately; “and it is cruel—cruel in the extreme of you, mamma, to think for a moment that it is true.”
“That what is true?” said a deep, grave voice.