“Well, I am very sorry, but it seems to me quite your own fault, and I wash my hands of it,” said Pen.
She glanced at Miss Daubenay’s flower-like countenance, and made a discovery. Miss Daubenay’s soft chin had acquired a look of obstinacy; the fawn-like eyes stared back at her with a mixture of appeal and determination. “You can’t wash your hands of it. I told you that Papa was going to seek an interview with your cousin to-day.”
“You must stop him.”
“I can’t. You don’t know Papa!”
“No, and I don’t want to know him,” Pen pointed out.
“If I told him it had all been lies, I do not know what he might not do. I won’t do it! I don’t care what you may say: I won’t!”
“Well, I shall deny every word of your story.”
“Then,” said Lydia, not without triumph, “Papa will do something dreadful to you, because he will think it is you who are telling lies!”
“It seems to me that unless he is a great fool he must know you well enough by now to guess that it is you who have told lies!” said Pen, with asperity.
“It’s no use being disagreeable and rude,” said Lydia. “Papa thinks you followed me to Queen Charlton.”