“As you wish, of course, Miss Raynsworth.”
She plunged into it.
“You may remember,” she began, “a little incident at Cannes which annoyed you at the time—naturally so—and annoyed you still more, I imagine, afterwards, when I refused to let you resent the impertinence I had been subjected to. I could not have done otherwise, as you will hear. I had promised my mother before leaving home to tell no one what I am now going to tell you, without her leave.”
As she spoke there was an imperceptible lightening of Mr Gresham’s expression.
“Your mother knew!” he ejaculated.
“Of course,” she exclaimed, too bent upon her recital to feel surprise at his words. “This was how it all happened.” And forcing herself to speak with perfect calmness, she began at the beginning of the story and told it all, simply and without comment, only omitting the names of any not immediately concerned in the little drama—such as those of Michael Gresham and Mrs Shepton—and carefully exonerating from all shadow of blame in the matter her sister and her parents.
When she had finished there fell a dead silence. With all her self-control Philippa could not bring herself to raise her eyes—the conflicting feelings in her mind made her almost physically giddy.
Then as the silence continued, a new element began to make itself felt. Her pride awoke and she reared her head half defiantly.
“Does he think I am going tamely to await his judgment upon me?” she thought to herself. “If so, he shall—”
But at that moment Mr Gresham’s voice at last made itself heard.