It was Miss Bartlett's turn to wince. "However," said the girl,
despising her cousin's shiftiness, "What's done's done. You have
put me in a most awkward position. How am I to get out of it?"
Miss Bartlett could not think. The days of her energy were over.
She was a visitor, not a chaperon, and a discredited visitor at
that. She stood with clasped hands while the girl worked herself
into the necessary rage.
"He must--that man must have such a setting down that he won't
forget. And who's to give it him? I can't tell mother now--owing
to you. Nor Cecil, Charlotte, owing to you. I am caught up every
way. I think I shall go mad. I have no one to help me. That's why
I've sent for you. What's wanted is a man with a whip."
Miss Bartlett agreed: one wanted a man with a whip.
"Yes--but it's no good agreeing. What's to be DONE. We women go
maundering on. What DOES a girl do when she comes across a cad?"
"I always said he was a cad, dear. Give me credit for that, at
all events. From the very first moment--when he said his father
was having a bath.
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