“What a mercy he didn’t feel the box!” was Brenda’s remark. “I do think, Fanchon, you are very clever—very wicked, of course, and I suppose you ought to be punished. But there—you meant well, didn’t you?”
“I suppose I did,” said Fanchon, raising her pale blue eyes and fixing them on her governess’ face.
Brenda looked back at the girl. She heartily wished that Fanchon was two years younger and five years stupider, and even a little more ugly; but, such as she was, she must make the best of her.
“Of course,” continued Fanchon, who seemed to divine her governess’ thoughts, “if you really think that I told a wicked story, I can go to father now and tell him that I made a mistake, and that the box contained your blue silk dress, and—and—other things of yours—and not the jam pots. Shall I, Brenda? shall I?”
“You goosey! you goosey!” said Brenda. She squeezed Fanchon’s arm and began to pace up and down the terrace walk with her pupil by her side. “You know,” she said, lowering her voice and speaking in the most confiding and enthralling way, “you are older than the others, and I can confide in you. It is wrong to tell lies—very, very wrong—and whatever possessed you, you silly girl, to think of jam pots? I am sure nothing was further from our heads on that auspicious day. But I don’t want your dear father to see the dress that I am going to the fête in, and I will tell you why.”
“Please do,” said Fanchon, “for to tell the truth, Brenda, neither Nina, nor Josephine, nor I understand you always.”
“Well, dears, is it likely that you should? I am, let me see, between twenty-two and twenty-three years of age, although I don’t look it by any means.”
“I don’t know what that age looks like, so can’t say,” was Fanchon’s remark.
“Well, dear—it is a very beautiful age, and very young. It is the age when a girl comes—so to speak—to her prime, and when she thinks of—of,”—Brenda lowered her voice—“getting married.”
“Oh!” said Fanchon, colouring crimson. “You don’t mean to say—”