"Because you are not; I don't believe you'll go through with it even now. Bah! such glory, such honor, such a proud moment, and to say you are miserable! May I ask what you are miserable about?"
"Because I have sacrificed my honor; because I am the meanest, most horrid girl on God's earth," said Florence, with passion. "Because the Scholarship so won turns to dust and ashes in my mouth. Because—because of Kitty, little Kitty, who wanted really what I have so basely taken from her. Oh, I hate myself and I hate you, Bertha. Why did I ever meet you?"
Florence was past tears, a dry sob rose in her throat, it half choked her for a moment, then she stood up and wrung her hands.
"Go away, please, Bertha; leave me now; I cannot have you."
"You can put things right, of course, according to your idea of right," said Bertha, in a sulky voice; "you can go to Sir John and tell him what has happened; you can do that if you please."
"I cannot—you know I cannot."
"I certainly do know you cannot," said Bertha. "Well, now, my dear, we will leave off heroics; it is all very fine for you to talk of your conscience, but I don't think that little monitor within is of a very active turn of mind. If he were he would have absolutely at the first idea shunted off the evil proposal which I happened to make to you. You would never have yielded to the temptation. Think just for a moment: would Kitty Sharston have done this thing?"
"Of course not; why do you ask?"
"Think again, would Mary Bateman have done this thing?"
"Again, why do you ask?"