“I was only going to say—don’t think me irreverent, but you are not easily ‘convinced against your will,’ Winifred. The verse about ‘Moses and the prophets’ came into my mind. I am not sure that you would give more heed to a ghost than to those who have already spoken.”
“Not as much,” said Winifred. “But what, then, has been the use of the poor White Weeper’s troubling herself and you about me?”
“To strengthen my hands, perhaps—in my prophetic capacity, to increase my conviction.”
“And what is that?”
“A very strong one—that harm will come of your persistence. Increased trouble and sorrow to others it will certainly cause. Listen, Winifred.”
And then she fired her last shot, by revealing to the girl Lennox Maryon’s confidence of the previous evening.
Winifred was not pale now. Her cheeks burned, her face grew crimson to the very roots of her hair.
“Louise!” she repeated, “Louise!”
Hertha felt rather provoked.
“Yes,” she said, “Louise. Your cousin is heart and soul devoted to her, and what wonder? She is charming and good, and often I almost think her beautiful. You have always underestimated her.”