“There are violets. I cannot believe it is a coincidence. Charlotte, Charlotte, how _could_ you have told her? I have thought before speaking; it _must_ be you.” “Told her what?” she asked, with growing agitation. “About that dreadful afternoon in February.” Miss Bartlett was genuinely moved. “Oh, Lucy, dearest girl—she hasn’t put that in her book?” Lucy nodded. “Not so that one could recognize it. Yes.” “Then never—never—never more shall Eleanor Lavish be a friend of mine.” “So you did tell?” “I did just happen—when I had tea with her at Rome—in the course of conversation—” “But Charlotte—what about the promise you gave me when we were packing? Why did you tell Miss Lavish, when you wouldn’t even let me tell mother?” “I will never forgive Eleanor. 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.” 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.”