“Really, Kitty, I ought not to listen to stories of that sort; but as you have begun you may as well tell me what you are alluding to. What has Mrs. Fleming done that you all consider partial?”
“Oh Mrs. Wyndham, you must know. She has moved Peggy Desmond into the Upper School. Of course it was very sad for the poor little girl to break her leg, and we’re none of us likely to forget it, but why that should have given her the entrée into the Upper School puzzles us all. We feel a little—a little hurt about it. Of course she doesn’t know anything like as much as the rest of us.”
“On the contrary,” said Mrs. Wyndham, “Mrs. Fleming has told my husband that Peggy is very highly educated up to a certain point.”
“Oh well,” said Kitty, with a smile, “of course, when a girl has such shocking manners and speaks in the awful way she does, one can scarcely think her educated. I’m sure you agree with me, dear Mrs. Wyndham. I often see you quite shudder when Peggy speaks, although you keep it in so beautifully and bravely. Oh do let me settle this couvre-pied over you, your dear feet will get so cold! Now, isn’t that comfy? Ah, I wish I had a mother to pet!”
Kitty suddenly went on her knees, took one of Mrs. Wyndham’s slender hands, and pressed it to her lips. “You must forgive me,” she said, and she raised dark eyes, brimful of tears, to the lady’s face.
“She is a dear little thing,” thought Mrs. Wyndham, “and how sensibly she talks about Peggy; no rancour or bitterness, but just the feelings of a nice, ladylike girl. I like her very much indeed. I am glad my children should have her as a friend.”
“Kitty,” said Mrs. Wyndham, after a long pause, “can you throw any light on that mystery of how poor Peggy broke her leg?”
Kitty dropped her long eyelashes and remained silent. After a minute she raised her eyes and fixed them on the lady’s face.
“I could tell something, but—I mustn’t.”
“Indeed, my dear! You mean you could explain this mystery? I understand that it has caused a great deal of misery in the school.”