"Got anything new in the way of clothes?" asked Lilith Gordon as she and Laura undressed for bed a night or two after their return.
"Yes, one," said Laura shortly.—For she thought Lilith winked at the third girl, a publican's daughter from Clunes.
"Another like the last? Or have you gone in for yellow ochre this time?"
Laura flamed in silence.
"Great Scott, what a colour that was! Fit for an Easter Fair—Miss Day said so."
"It wasn't mine," retorted Laura passionately. "It ... it belonged to a girl I knew who died—and her mother gave it to me as a remembrance of her—but I didn't care for it."
"I shouldn't think you did.—But I say, does your mother let you wear other people's clothes? What a rummy thing to do!"
She went out of the room—no doubt to spread this piece of gossip further. Laura looked daggers after her. She was angry enough with Lilith for having goaded her to the lie, but much angrier with herself for its blundering ineffectualness. It was not likely she had been believed, and if she were, well, it made matters worse instead of better: people would conclude that she lived on charity. Always when unexpectedly required to stand on the defensive, she said or did something foolish. That morning, for instance, a similar thing had happened—it had rankled all day in her mind. On looking through the washing, Miss Day had exclaimed in horror at the way in which her stockings were mended.
"Whoever did it? They've been done since you left here. I would never have passed such dams."
Laura crimsoned. "Those? Oh, an old nurse we've got at home. We've had her for years and years—but her eyesight's going now."