“I—it was my fault as much as hers.”
“Your fault?” bellowed her father. “Your fault?”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake, Griffiths, don’t frighten the wits out of the poor child; let her speak,” exclaimed the mother.
But when all was said and done, Flossie had grit in her. She was not going on this day of calamity to let her friend bear the brunt alone.
“We did it between us,” she said. “Poor old Nesta, she was having such a bad time, and I wanted her so much. We planned it together. We knew that if father knew it he would not take her, so we planned it, and you never guessed, father, and, and—Oh, I suppose you will give me an awful punishment—send me to a terrible school or something of that sort.”
But Griffiths was past himself.
“You knew it—you planned it! Why, you are as bad as she is!”
He took her by her shoulders and shook her. Her black eyes blazed up into his face.
“Yes, I am quite as bad as she is,” she said.
“Then go out of the room. Go upstairs.”