Walter wouldn't answer. "However, you needn't blame Kitty, for it was not Kitty who told me," Mary went on. "Not Kitty!" says he, staring. "No," said she, "Kitty never said a word—more's the pity." "Then what did you mean by telling me she did?" said he. "I didn't tell you so, Walter. It was you accused Kitty, not I," says Mary. "I heard in another way. It has made me very unhappy," says she. "Rubbish," says he. "I'm not bound to tell everything to everybody." "No," said she. "But you are bound not to run after Kitty without her parents' consent—not to see her in secret—and not—" Mary couldn't go on. "Well! anything else?" says he gloomily. "I suppose you'll go and make a fine tale of all this to the Phrynnes." "It's too much of a tale already," says she. "I've no need to make any more of it." And then she said, "Walter, how could you?" "How could I what? See Kitty! Stuff and nonsense!" said he. "If I did have a word with her, what's the harm? 'All's fair in love and war!'" says he, and he tried to laugh. "Wrong-doing is never fair," Mary told him. And she said, "If you loved Kitty, you could not wish to make her deceitful." "Well, you needn't bother," said he. "And that is not all," Mary went on. "How could you—" "How could I what?" said he, very short. "Tell Kitty she had a pretty face?" "How could you rob her of her watch?" Mary said. He was taken by surprise, and Mary's words struck home at last. He turned as white as paste, and a frightened look came into his face. If she'd asked him whether he'd done it, he'd have said, "No;" but she didn't ask him that, and no doubt he felt sure she knew a deal more than she did know. "Why—why—why—" says he, stammering, "I declare, Mary, that's a—a nice thing to accuse a chap of! 'Rob,' indeed! When she gave it me!" says he. "Did Kitty make a present to you of her watch and chain?" Mary asked. When Mary came to this part in her story, I could understand what Walter had meant by calling Mary stern. As she said the words, telling mother all about it, she did look stern. "Well, not exactly a—present, perhaps," says he, stumbling over his words. "But she gave them over to me. I do assure you she did, Mary," says he, as if it was an excuse for himself. "Gave them over to you—what for?" says Mary. Walter wouldn't tell at first, and then he shuffled. I'd given them over to him to do what he liked with them—at least, it wasn't exactly a present, but a loan—at least, it was just to tide him over a difficulty, when he was hard-pressed—at least— Mary got out of patience with him, I suppose, for she cut sharp into his talk. "At least, you wheedled poor little Kitty out of them!" says she.