"Rats! You know there are no rats in the house. What fresh insult will you bestow upon us?"
A moment later she had vanished from the room. Rosamund put both her hands to her hot ears. Irene sprang from her hiding-place.
"Didn't I do it well? Oh, what a hateful, hateful girl she is! Now, Rosamund—Rose—whatever you call yourself—you had better just get right out of this window with me as fast as ever you can, or you'll have Lucy bringing her precious governesses, and her mother, and that sick girl, Jane Denton—how dare she call herself Jane, my dear mother's name?—as well as the Professor himself, on the scene to hunt for the rats. Come, Rose, out with you! We will lock the door first, and then all will be safe."
It seemed to Rosamund at the moment that even her word of honor had vanished out of sight, for her hatred of Lucy had really reached boiling-point. She did turn the key in the lock, knowing well that no one would break open the door until the morning; and a minute later she and Irene had escaped by the window, and gone down hand over hand by the wistaria and ivy until they reached the ground. Three minutes later they were ensconced in the old summer-house, where they sat very close to each other, Irene not talking much, and Rosamund wondering what was to become of her.
"It seems to me," said Rosamund to herself, as she looked down on the little creature who nestled up almost like a wild bird in her arms, "that I have burnt my boats, and that I cannot go back. But there is one thing certain: I will tell the Professor the truth in the morning."
All that Irene did, however, during the long hours of that summer's night was to lie fast asleep with Rosamund's arm round her. But just before she fell into slumber, Rosamund said:
"Aren't you cold, Irene? Surely you are not accustomed, even in the middle of summer, to wear so little clothing at night."
"Bless you!" said Irene, "half the nights of my life I sleep in the boat. I go out just as night falls, and none of them can ever catch me; and there I sleep, curled up in the bottom of the boat. Oh! it is splendid to wake in the early morning and to hear the birds singing, and to feel the fresh, fresh air on my face. I was never meant for civilization. When you come to live with me we will do the same, both of us. We'll be an uncivilized pair of terrors—that is what we will be. If you come to me, Rosamund, will you promise to be quite naughty? You won't turn awfully goody-goody, just to make me goody-goody?"
"I can promise nothing at present," said Rosamund. "You did exceedingly wrong to come, and I did worse to yield to you, and to get out of the window, and to spend the night with you, as I have done. I don't know what will happen in the morning—I really don't—and my friend so very ill, too."
"Oh, bother your friend!" said Irene; and then she dropped off asleep, and Rosamund sat and thought things out.