“You are quite mistaken; I am not blaming her for her unfortunate origin. It would be iniquitous to do that, but for her own behaviour.”
“What has she done?”
“As I told you, I knew nothing about her, but, thinking that she looked uncomfortable while Lady Tennington was talking to her, I sent her up to tea in the schoolroom. Catherine can tell you the rest.”
The burden thus shifted was taken up with evident reluctance, but yet without flinching, by the daughter.
“She seemed rather shy with Miss Barnacre, who did her best to put her at ease by asking her questions about subjects she thought would interest her.” (Here a slight upward curl, like an angry tom cat’s, of the corners of Mrs. Tancred’s rigid lips, incomprehensible to her companions, would have revealed to the initiated a recalling on her part of one of the subjects, i.e. her own religious creed, of the governess’s catechism as retailed by the culprit now under discussion.) “She got up suddenly, and went over to the other side of the table, and joined Meg, who was looking at an illustrated paper.”
“Well?”
“Miss Barnacre and I went on talking, but I could not help catching snatches of the two girls’ conversation—of Miss Ransome’s, rather—and I can only say that it was of such a kind that I thought it best to send Meg out of the room.”
“I shall be glad to know precisely what you overheard.”
“She was retailing to Meg very objectionable scandal.”
“Yes?”