“It’s nothing,” said the maid, gruffly.
“Oh, but it is. Coming out, you told me it was most important. Now, Hephzibah, you are in a bad temper because your conscience reproves you.”
“My conscience!” exclaimed the immaculate maid. “My conscience reproves me a hundred times a day!”
“So much the better. Then tell me your secret.”
A struggle was going on in the handmaid’s bosom. She prolonged it for some distance, perhaps unnecessarily; but then she rather enjoyed a moral struggle. At last she said, in a dull, dissembling voice:
“I’m sure now, Freule, that Anne Mary steals cook’s perquisites. I can prove it.”
“Pooh! Is that all?” cried the disappointed Freule. “You’ve talked about that before, and I don’t care a brass farthing, Hephzibah. A nice secret to make secrets of! Go along to the other side of the road—do!”
Hephzibah obeyed, looking very wise.