"But is the poor girl wanting in discretion?" asked Ermengarde's most dulcet tones.
"Not," replied Agatha, who had silently stolen into the circle, "if it is discreet to shout exaggerated scandal in public places"—in some occult way Agatha knew of Dorris's misadventure at Turbia—"or to make mischief between friends and breed dissension in families, by the most odious misrepresentations and insinuations. Not if it is discreet to catch up half a misunderstood tale and repeat it with a twist—
"I say, Miss Somers, hadn't you better hold up. The lady might be coming round the corner," remonstrated Bertie in an anxious voice.
"She can't. She's gone to Nice to see her aunt. So she told me at breakfast——"
"Gone to Nice!" came in a chorus of irrepressible ecstasy. "If she would only stay at Nice."
"Too good to be true!" complained a male voice, that Dorris conjectured to be that of a certain Major Norris, whom she had more than once publicly appropriated as lawful spoil of her charms, and inveigled into winding and solitary walks alone with her.
"Couldn't somebody persuade her that Nice is the only spot on earth for the complexion?" asked one.
"She'd swallow any rot. That story of the frogs—feeding the conscripts with frogs to give them courage! Too bad to stuff her like that," said another.
"Surely you must acknowledge that the presence of our young friend at least makes for mirth at table," reproved the thin man's plaintive tones.
"You hypocritical old owl, you!" muttered Dorris, clenching her small fists and twisting them as if a gentle fancy had involved them in Mr. Welbourne's hair, which was artistically grown.