Brenda coloured.
“Why do you say that?” she asked.
“Because—because—I know it. You made up that story to-day when you were by yourself, and it’s wonderfully clever—it really is. I suppose you think that we girls believe you.”
“You’ll believe in your pretty frocks, and nice hats, and nice shoes and charming gloves, and also in the little treats at the different tea shops which I mean to give you all out of dear papa’s money—”
“That is, of course, if we don’t tell,” said Fanchon. “Oh, you can please yourself about that,” said Brenda. “You can tell, and everything will be at an end. I shall go away from here; I will give him back the money—I have it in that drawer—and he will take my poor little character as well, and I’ll wander forth into the world, a desolate and ruined girl. You won’t go to the sea—you’ll stay at home. You’ll have your victory. In a few weeks a horrid, elderly governess with spectacles, and perhaps with a squint, will come here. I’m sure your father will be afraid to get any one young and—and—pretty—again. When she comes, she will give you—”
“Beans!” said Fanchon. “I know the sort—I—I don’t want a horrible thing like that in the house.”
“No—poor Brenda is better than that, isn’t she?”
“Oh, Brenda, you are so clever,” laughed Fanchon. When Brenda heard that laugh, she knew that her victory was assured.
“My dear girl,” she said, “believe me or not; that was my real reason for keeping back the money, and your terrible little Nina can keep an account of all that I spend at Marshlands, and satisfy her wise, odious little head with the fact that I am not holding back one penny for myself. She can do that, and you can all have a good time. Now—what do you say?”
“It sounds—if you had not told that first lie—it sounds almost as if it could just be believed,” said Fanchon.