“Oh, Brenda—you know—don’t pretend that you forget. I gave you a fright—a big fright—this morning, and you—you cried. What are you going to do about the money? you have it—you know, and it isn’t yours, it’s ours.”
“I have it, of course,” said Brenda, “I have not denied it. I told you that I thought of spending it at Marshlands; there’ll be sure to be nice shops there, and we can see the things that’ll be suitable. You don’t suppose, you poor children, that you can manage with only those pink muslin dresses—that would never, never do—I had no such thought, I assure you.”
“But,” persisted Fanchon, “you said this morning that you had spent all the money on us, and that we owed you for the gloves. Oh, how knowing you are, Brenda, but you have overstepped the mark this time, and poor papa, if he knew—”
Brenda lowered her eyes. She had very thick and very curling jet-black lashes, and they looked sweet as they rested against her blooming cheeks. Fanchon could not help noticing them and, further, she could not help observing the gentle smile that played round her lips.
“Now, listen,” said Brenda. “I want to confide in you. You can believe in me or not—just as you please. I cannot possibly force your belief, nor can I force you to do anything but what you wish. I am, to a certain extent, in your power, and in the power of the other two girls. You can tell your father, and he will dismiss me, and—I shall be ruined—”
“Oh, I don’t suppose papa will be so very hard with you. He’s quite fond of you, you know,” said Fanchon.
“He would be terribly severe,” said Brenda. “He is a dear good man, but he would be terrible, fearful, if you told him—you three—what you have found out. I tell you, Fanchon, why he would be so fearful. Because I have done what I have done entirely for the sake of deceiving him.”
“Oh dear! dear! Then you are even more wicked than I thought,” said Fanchon.
“Listen—the position is a very strange one. I seem to forget, as I am talking to you, that I am your governess, and that you and your sisters are my little pupils, but the facts are those: I look upon you, Fanchon, as very much older than your years. You have, in many ways, the mind of a grown-up woman. Of course you are very young, quite unformed, but you will be grown up sooner than most girls; and you have an understanding way, and I think you will follow me now if I try hard to explain myself.”
“I wish you would begin,” said Fanchon then, restlessly, “you do so beat about the bush. You said this morning that you hadn’t a penny over, and that we owed you for the gloves; and then, afterwards, you confessed that you had something over—an awful lot over—and that you meant to spend it at Marshlands. You told one lie, anyway.”