Mollie flushed, hanging her head.
"I ... I learnt it b—but now, sir," she stammered.
"Ah, I see. At the keyhole. Fie, Mollie; it was not well done!"
Yet his tone was more absent than upbraiding, for he was trying to fit the key to the tale.
"I ... I did it to p-pleasure you, sir, and because my father says the Revolution in France is a bloody and wicked thing. And ... and I am sure Moosoo Trouet would be ready to murder us all in our beds as they have been doing in Paris. So, for sake of it all, and the pretty young gentleman from France, I came to tell you. An' it's certain Jenny's burnt the omelette, which if father knew he'd beat me sorely."
A tear in a pretty eye is a wonderful softener to men's hearts.
Michael Berrington took Mollie's hand and tried to express at the same moment his gratitude for her good intent and the wrongness of deceit and eavesdropping.
Mollie sobbed a little, smiled a little, found coquetry vain, and a golden guinea consoling.
Michael's conscience pricked him at the thought that this last might be termed bribery and corruption.
Yet Mollie's news was startling even if incoherent.