"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 anyone 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,
