Andrew took it up, looked at one or two places, and then, with a glance I shall never forget, he gave it to me. My mother took it from my unresisting hand.
"What does this mean, Vevette?" said she. "Where did this book come from?"
"My Aunt Jemima gave it to me," I answered, hardly able to speak.
"And you concealed it from me? Oh, my daughter!"
"Of course she concealed it," said my aunt triumphantly.
"Let Vevette speak, mother, since you have chosen to make this matter public, in what I must needs call an ill-judged manner," said Andrew, in that calm voice of authority which will be heard.
"How was it, Vevette?"
I tried to explain, but between my own shame and confusion and my aunt's interruptions, I am conscious that I made but a lame business of it. I did manage to say, however, that though I sat down and read the first poem with Betty, I had refused to read any more, and that I had absolutely refused to lend the book to Betty, who had taken it without leave.
"Yes, I know all about that!" said my aunt.
"Betty told me herself, poor wretch, that you told her you would not lend it to her; but can you deny that you went away and left the book in her hands? Can you deny that you were angry with her, and reproached her for telling me of your private curtsying about London, and London fine gallants, and other things that young maids should not know, much less tell on? You are an adder and a viper—that you are! And come of viper's brood—nasty, frog-eating French!"