She has betrayed my confidence."
"Why did you tell her, though? This is a most serious thing."
Why does any one tell anything? The question is eternal, and it
was not surprising that Miss Bartlett should only sigh faintly in
response. She had done wrong--she admitted it, she only hoped
that she had not done harm; she had told Eleanor in the strictest
confidence.
Lucy stamped with irritation.
"Cecil happened to read out the passage aloud to me and to Mr.
Emerson; it upset Mr. Emerson and he insulted me again. Behind
Cecil's back. Ugh! Is it possible that men are such brutes?
Behind Cecil's back as we were walking up the garden."
Miss Bartlett burst into self-accusations and regrets.
"What is to be done now? Can you tell me?"
"Oh, Lucy--I shall never forgive myself, never to my dying day.
Fancy if your prospects--"
"I know," said Lucy, wincing at the word. "I see now why you
wanted me to tell Cecil, and what you meant by 'some other
source.' You knew that you had told Miss Lavish, and that she was
not reliable.
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