“I confess it?” remarked Priscilla; “that is a curious phrase to apply to a statement. I confess nothing. I was in Maggie’s room, but what of that? When people confess things,” she added, with a naïveté which touched one or two of the girls, “they generally have done something wrong. Now, what was there wrong in my sitting in my friend’s room?”
“Oh, Miss Oliphant is ‘your friend’?” said Rosalind.
“Of course, of course.” But here a memory came over Priscilla; she remembered Maggie’s words the night before—“You were my friend.” For the first time her voice faltered, and the crimson flush of distress covered her face. Rosalind’s cruel eyes were fixed on her.
“Let me speak now,” interrupted Miss Day. She gave Rosalind a piercing glance which caused her, in her turn, to colour violently. “It is just this, Miss Peel,” said Annie Day: “you will excuse my speaking bluntly, but you are placed in a very unpleasant position.”
“I? How?” asked Prissie.
“Oh, you great baby!” burst from Rosalind again.
“Please don’t speak to me in that tone, Miss Merton,” said Priscilla, with a new dignity, which became her well. “Now, Miss Day, what have you to say?”
To Prissie’s surprise, at this juncture, Nancy Banister suddenly left her seat, and came and stood at the back of her chair.
“I am on your side whatever happens,” she remarked.
“Thank you,” said Prissie.