"That's it, you may depend, Trixy. The poor young gentleman's a prey to unrequited affection. What are you shaking your head so vehemently at?"
"It isn't that," said Trix, looking solemn and mysterious, "it's worse!"
"Worse! Dear me. I didn't think anything could be worse. What is it then?"
"Murder!"
It was Trixy's turn to be sepulchral. Miss Darrell opened her big brown eyes. Miss Stuart's charnel-house tone was really blood curdling.
"My dearest Trix! Murder! Good gracious, you can't mean to say we've been dancing all night with a murderer? Who has he killed?"
"Edith, don't be an idiot! Did I say he killed any one? No, it isn't that—it's a murder that was committed when he was a baby."
"When he was a baby!" Miss Darrell repeats, in dense bewilderment.
"Yes, his mother was murdered, poor thing. It was a most shocking affair, and as interesting as any novel you ever read," said Trixy, with the greatest relish. "Murdered in cold blood as she slept, and they don't know to this day who did it."
Edith's eyes were still very wide open.