“Oh, fudge! I heard father call him Philip Ogilvie. He’s not perfect.”
Sibyl’s face turned white; she looked full at Gus. Gus, not observing the expression in her eyes, continued, in a glib and easy tone:
“Father didn’t know I was there; he was talking to another man. I think the man’s name was Halkett. I’m always great at remembering names, and I heard him say ‘Philip Ogilvie will do what we want. When it comes to the point he’s not too scrupulous.’ Yes, scrupulous was the word, and I ran away and looked it out in the dictionary, and it means—oh, you needn’t stare at me as if your eyes were starting out of your head—it means a person who hesitates from fear of acting wrongly. Now, as your father isn’t scrupulous, that means that he doesn’t hesitate to act wrong.”
Sibyl with one swift, unerring bang struck Gus a sharp blow across the cheek.
“What have you done that for, you little beggar?” he said, his eyes flashing fire.
“To teach you not to tell lies,” answered Sibyl. She turned, went up the room, and stood by the window. Her heart was bursting, and tears were scorching her eyeballs. “But I won’t shed them,” thought the child, “not for worlds.”
Sibyl’s action was so unexpected that there was a silence in the room for a few moments, but presently Freda stole softly to Sibyl’s side and touched her on her arm.
“Gus is sorry he said anything to hurt you,” she said; “we didn’t understand that you would feel it as you do, but we are all sorry, and we like you all the better for it. Won’t you shake hands with Gus and be friends?”
“And I’ll never say a word against your father again,” said Gus.
“You had better not,” answered Sibyl. “No, I won’t shake hands; I won’t make friends with you till I know something more about you. But I’d like to climb trees, and to get into a holland frock.”