“I am unhappy—but I can’t tell you, Honora.”
“What is the good of a friend if you can’t confide in her?” said Honora.
“If,” said Penelope, speaking very slowly, “I do what I ought to do, you will never be my friend again; you will never wish even to have my name mentioned. And if I do what I ought not to do, then perhaps, you will be my friend—but I shall be unworthy of you.”
“I don’t know anything whatever about that,” said Honora; “but I do know one thing. If you are in any sort of trouble (and perhaps your sister has got you into some trouble—for, to tell you the truth, Penelope, I do not greatly care for your sister, and I must say so just now), you will, of course do what is right.”
“That is the dreadful thing my conscience said just now,” said Penelope.
“Then you really are in great trouble, dear?”
“Don’t call me dear,” said Penelope. “I am in great trouble.”
“On your own account?”
“Practically. I did wrong a little time ago, and it is reflecting on me; and anyhow, of course it is my trouble—and it’s—Oh, Nora—don’t touch me—don’t look at of! Go away, please—I’m not fit for you to look at me. I belong to—to—the wicked people! Go away, Nora—you’re so pure, and so—so—sort of—holy. I am frightened when I see you—let me be alone to-night!”
“It’s your sister Brenda, it’s not you!” said Honora, startled.