"Fanny," said Mitzi gently, "you have always been a good girl. Why did you tell these lies?"
Fanny sniffed more. With her nose, with her mouth, with all her throat. If it had been possible she would have sniffed with her ears. But there came no reply.
"Fanny," repeated Mitzi, "you see that appearances are all against you."
A paroxysm of sniffing answered, while the girl assented with her head, and her tears redoubled. Who would have thought she had so much water in her?[2]
"You must tell us the truth," insisted Mitzi. "You will understand that by your silence you only strengthen the suspicion which lies upon you."
There was a pause. And then, suddenly, Fanny turned upon me with clenched fists, her wet face purple with rage. She trembled with anger.
"What did I do to you," she said with a cry of exasperation, "that you should come and wrong me so? I am no thief, nor is Mr. Giulay. He has not taken the music, nor have I sent the wire ..."
"But, Fanny," interrupted Mitzi.
"No Fräulein, it's no use ... you won't prove anything. The young gentleman wants to know the truth. Well, I will say the truth: I used to walk out with Mr. Giulay ..."