"Melicent," he said, greeting nobody, "oblige me by taking your breakfast into the study. Eat it there, and wait till I come."
Melicent stood up, staring in surprise. "Why do you say this? What have I done?"
"What you have done cannot be so much as alluded to before your young cousins. Leave the room at once."
Melicent drew herself up. She looked round at all the furtively dropped eyes—at Gwen's cheeks, oddly suffused with sudden scarlet—then at her uncle.
"I have done nothing to deserve to be so spoken to," said she. "When you find out the truth, I hope you will apologise to me."
"We wish to hear nothing from you, Melicent. Go in silence."
Tommy behind the tea-tray, and her pupils seated round, were well-nigh paralysed with terror. What had been found out? Were they implicated? Would Melicent obey?
She took up her cup and plate, tossed back her hair, and walked out, white and speechless. The vicar shut the door, sat down in the dire silence, and began his breakfast. They all chewed their way through chunks of pork-pie in unbroken gloom.
When his daughters had filed away to learn their collects, their father betook himself to his study and the culprit.
Melicent had finished her breakfast, and stood by the window. He sat down at his table, and fixed his eyes upon her.