“I’ve heard you say that before.” Annette began to count some stitches.
“Oh, it’s all very well,” said Constance, with amusement—“you think you know all about me, but you don’t. You don’t know, for instance, that I went to ride over a week ago with a young man, without telling you, or Aunt Ellen, or Uncle Ewen, or anybody!” She waited to see the effect of her announcement. Annette did appear rather startled.
“I suppose you met him on the road?”
“I didn’t! I made an appointment with him. We went to a big wood, some miles out of Oxford, belonging to some people he knows, where there are beautiful grass rides. He has the key of the gates—we sent away the groom—and I was an hour alone with him—quite! There!”
There was a defiant accent on the last word. Annette shook her head. She had been fifteen years in the Risboroughs’ service, and remembered Connie when she was almost a baby.
“Whatever were you so silly for? You know your mamma wouldn’t have let you.”
“Well, I’ve not got my mamma,” said Connie slowly. “And I’m not going to be managed by Aunt Ellen, Netta. I intend to run my own show.”
“Who is it?” said Annette, knitting busily.
Connie laughed.
“Do you think I’m going to tell you?”