"I can't understand him, you know," explained Mrs. Duncan, rubbing her nose. "Sometimes I think it's because I'm a fool, and sometimes I think it's because he's a fool. I dare say you've felt the same uncertainty. But we'd better talk of something else, so you won't look to conscious when he arrives."
"Arrives?" repeated Priscilla blankly.
"Yes, he's to lunch with me down town. He suggested that I would enjoy taking him to—what's the name of the place? Oh, well, he'll know. Perhaps you'll join us."
Priscilla declined fervently. Without saying it in so many words, she gave the impression that she had a most imperative engagement for the afternoon. As she voiced her stammering refusal, she felt like a criminal on the verge of exposure. For when the bell rang Peggy would answer it, and Horace would at once recognize that Priscilla's attractive maid was no other than Priscilla's bosom friend.
But Peggy, dusting industriously in the adjoining room, had overheard the news that had carried consternation to Priscilla's soul, and acted upon the hint with characteristic promptness. A moment later she appeared in the doorway, waiting unobtrusively till Priscilla looked in her direction. And then she said respectfully, "Miss Priscilla."
Priscilla struggled to play her part. "Yes—Margaret?"
"I haven't done the marketing yet. If you can spare me for a little while, I'll attend to it."
"Certainly, Margaret," replied Priscilla with boundless relief.
As Peggy disappeared, Mrs. Duncan leaned forward and tapped Priscilla's knee. "I tell you she's too good to be true," she insisted. "She's too pretty, too well-mannered. There's something wrong somewhere. Don't trust her." And Priscilla had to conquer the impression that it was her friend Peggy who was being slandered, before she could assume the nonchalant manner suited to the statement that they had always found Margaret a most trustworthy girl.