There was a short silence of rapturous enjoyment on Bonnybell’s part. Flora had pushed her into a luxurious chair, and the smoke was going up to heaven from her pink nostrils. She was beginning to be glad of her iniquity, even though the Toby for whom it was committed had proved to be but a mirage.
“How did you corrupt their minds?” The question shared Lady Tennington’s mouth with a cigarette; but, though a little inarticulate from this cause, the relish in it was unmistakable.
“I got into a dreadful scrape. They came and complained of me next day.”
The interest aroused by this statement vanquished material enjoyment, and Lady Tennington took the “Savory” from between her rosy lips, and sat up.
“What did you say?”
“Will you believe it?” replied Bonnybell, sitting up too, her eyes sparkling intensely in the relief and enjoyment of having at length found a confidant certain to sympathize in the grievous wrong done her. “All that I said was—I was looking at a silly little newspaper with Meg, and I happened to mention—we had come to a picture of Cressida Beaulieu and her Schipperkes—that Waddy ran her. Could you imagine that there was any one in the world so ignorant as not to know that Waddy ran Cressida?”
“It is inconceivable,” replied Flora, in an almost awed tone; and there was a moment or two of wondering and compassionate silence on the part of both.
“They came and laid a formal complaint against me next day, and I was sent for down from my studies—I was at my studies, if you please”—with a delightful little grimace.
“Your studies!” laughing significantly. “I should have thought that you knew as much as most people.”
At this ambiguous compliment something in Bonnybell once again felt jarred.