“And you, madame?” more plaintively still.
“I agree with my husband,” Mrs. de Vere replied, still smarting under the pangs of wounded pride, and quite ignoring the gratitude she had professed for Finette last night.
She could remember nothing but the fierce shame and anger that had thrilled her when she heard how Finette had held her up to the coarse ridicule of her negro servant.
“Very well,” said Finette, courtesying with pretended meekness; then she whimpered: “Oh, madame! let me stay. I will never tattle again.”
“I wish you to go. No pleading will move me to retain you in my service after your treachery of last night,” was the cold reply.
A malicious light crept into the beady black eyes beneath the downcast lids, and Finette crept servilely toward the door.
“I am very sorry,” she murmured, audibly; then, as if struck by a sudden thought: “Oh, I think I can undo some of my bad work of last night. I will go to monsieur; I will confess—”
“What?” quavered a frightened voice close beside her, and Mrs. de Vere clutched her arm. “What is it you are going to confess to my husband?” she demanded.
Finette turned upon her boldly.
“The abduction of his child at your instigation, miladi,” she replied, with insolent triumph, and she felt herself well revenged for Mrs. de Vere’s contempt when she saw how she had frightened the proud beauty.