“I wish to ask you, Miss Douglas,” Mrs. Coolidge said, coming to the point at once, and feeling very uncomfortable beneath her look, “if you have anything in your possession which does not honestly belong to you?”
She now fixed her stern gaze full upon the beautiful face. The battle was begun, and she was prepared to fight it out.
For an instant all three—for Isabel had returned to the room, and now stood behind her mother’s chair, where she could watch her rival—could distinctly hear the ticking of Mrs. Coolidge’s watch, which lay upon the dressing table at her side.
Then Brownie arose, and stood like an insulted princess before her inquisitor.
“Madam, I ask—nay, I demand—to know why you put such a question to me!” she said, in low, firm tones.
Her face had grown white as the narrow linen collar which she wore, and her eyes burned dangerously.
“You forget yourself, Miss Douglas,” Mrs. Coolidge said, pompously. “It was I who asked you a question.”
“And I consider such a question an insult, madam!”
“Very well; I expected you would; all people who are guilty of wrong feel insulted, or appear to, when they are accused.”
“Guilty of wrong! accused! I do not understand you, madam. Of what do you accuse me?” demanded the young girl, with a proud dignity which her employer had not expected from her.