“I donʼt care that for you,” answered Eoa, snapping her fingers like a copper–cap; “only I will have proper respect shown to me by people I particularly dislike. People I love may call me what, or do with me what, they please. My father was just the same; and I donʼt want to be any better than he was; and I donʼt believe God wants it.”
“He must be easily contented, then.”
Georgie, with all her deliciousness, could never pass a chance of sarcasm.
“Now Iʼll go and have it out with Uncle Cradock, about having you for my ayah.”
Mrs. Corklemore trembled far more at those words than at finding herself on the piano. This strange girl—whom she had so despised—was baffling all her tactics, and with no other sword and shield but those of truth and candour.
“Iʼve been a fool,” said Georgie to herself, for about the first time in her life; “I have strangely underrated this girl, and shall have hard work now to get round her. But it must be done. Come, though I have been so rash, I have two to one in my favour, now I see the way to handle it. But she must not tell the old noodle; that will never do.”
“I thought, Miss Nowell,” she continued aloud, “that it would not be considered honourable, even among East Indians, to repeat to a third person what was said familiarly and in confidence.”
“Of course not. What makes you speak of it? Do you mean to say I would do such a thing?”
“No, I am sure you would not, knowingly. But if you think for a moment, you will see that what I said just now, especially as to Sir Cradockʼs opinions, was told to you in pure confidence, and meant to go no further.”
“Oh,” answered Eoa, “then please not to tell me anything in pure confidence again, because I canʼt keep secrets, and you have no right to load me with them, without ever asking my leave even. But Iʼll try not to let it out, unless you provoke me before him.”