It was a very proud and dignified Stella that spoke, a spot of red burning on each cheek, and her slim figure held very erect.
“I hope, my darling,” said Lady Blount, longing to ask a more direct question—“I hope that girl was n't rude to you.”
“Unity rude?” Stella knitted her brow. The idea was ludicrous. “On the contrary, like the rest of you, she is far too fond of me. I don't know why; it 's very odd. And she is devoted body and soul to John. She has a fine, great, generous nature.”
The stain of jealousy should be wiped away, if she could possibly manage it.
“I believe she is a very good girl, though I have n't seen her—”
“Since she stayed at Southcliff?” said Stella with steady eyes.
“I—I was just going to say so,” Lady Blount stammered. The situation was perplexing. “And John does n't often speak of her.” She made rather a failure of a smile. “And what did the two of you talk about?”
The bitter knowledge of good and evil was coming fast to Stellamaris. A little while ago her innocence would have taken the question at its face-value; now, perhaps for the first time in her life to suspect disingenuousness, she penetrated to the poor little diplomacy lying beneath.
“Chiefly of John and myself—of nothing very particular,” she replied. “I did n't stay long.”
She saw the repression of Lady Blount's sigh of relief. Swiftly she drew her deductions. They were all concealing something from her, and the fact of their concealment proved it to be something shameful and abominable. Her bosom rose in revolt against the world. Lift but a corner of the fairest thing in life, and you found the ugliness below.