Anna Gale and I went home as we had come, with the addition of Peters, our old gardener, as escort. It had left off raining again, and there was some faint moonlight struggling through the clouds. Mamma had meant to send the brougham, but papa had been suddenly summoned to a distance, and as the evening was fine after all, she thought we might walk, by the road of course. As we got to the end of the lane, the scene of that afternoon came back to our minds. I did not want to think of it, but Anna would speak about it.
“I wonder,” she said—fancy Anna “wondering” about anything—“I really wonder who she was.”
“Oh, rubbish,” I said. “Who could she be but some old lunatic?”
“Well,” said Anna, “if she were, it isn’t very nice to think of.”
I faced round upon her.
“Now, Anna, you’re not to go talking about it, for I know it would sound as if I had been horrid to her, and perhaps I was; I don’t pretend to be an angel. But I don’t want any fuss—do you hear, Anna?”
“Yes,” she said, “of course I hear you, Connie.”
“Well, then, will you promise?”
“I’ll promise not to speak about it if I can help it,” she said; and with that I had to be content.
I don’t quite know why I was so anxious that no one should hear of our adventure. I was not, after all, so very ashamed of my behaviour to the old woman; not as ashamed as I should have been. But I had an uncomfortable, uneasy feeling—I just wanted to forget all about it.