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“Well, I’m hanged!” said Calder Wentworth, and, with a puzzled frown, he joined his other friends.

CHAPTER VIII

THE MORAL OF IT

Left alone with Mrs. Blunt, Agatha sank into the nearest chair.

“A very handsome young man, isn’t he?” asked the good lady, pushing a chair back into its place. “He’ll be an acquisition, I think.”

Agatha made no answer, and Mrs. Blunt, glancing at her, found her devouring the carpet with a stony stare.

“What on earth’s the matter, child?”

“I’m the wretchedest wickedest girl alive,” declared Agatha.

“Good gracious!”

“Mrs. Blunt, who do you think was in the summer-house when Mr. Merceron went there?”

“My dear, are you ill? You jump about so from subject to subject.”

“It’s all one subject, Mrs. Blunt. There was a girl there.”

“Well, my dear, and if there was? Boys will be boys; and I’m sure there was no harm.”

“No harm! Oh!”

“Agatha, are you crazy?” demanded Mrs. Blunt, with an access of sternness.

“Could I fancy,” pursued Agatha, in despairing playfulness mimicking Uncle Van’s manner, “how Miss Bushell looked, and how Victor looked, and how everybody looked? Could I fancy it? Why, I was there!”

“There! Where?”

“Why, in that wretched little temple. I was the girl, Mrs. Blunt. I–I–I was the milkmaid, as Mr. Sutton says. I was the country wench! Oh dear! oh dear! oh dear!”

Mrs. Blunt, knowing her sex, held out a bottle of salts.

“I’m not mad,” said Agatha.

“You’re nearly hysterical.”

Agatha took a long sniff.

“I think I can tell you now,” she said more calmly. “But was ever a girl in such an awful position before?”

It is needless to repeat what Mrs. Blunt said. Her censures will have been long ago anticipated by every right-thinking person, and if she softened them down a little more than strict justice allowed, it must have been because Agatha was an old favorite of hers, and Lord Thrapston an old antipathy. Upon her word, she always wondered that the poor child, brought up by that horrid old man, was not twice as bad as she was.

“But what am I to do about them?” cried Agatha.

‘Them’ evidently meant Calder and Charlie.

“Do! Why, there’s nothing to do. You must just apologize to Mr. Merceron, and tell him that an end had better be put–“

“Oh, I know–Mr. Taylor said that; but, Mrs. Blunt, I don’t want an end to be put to our acquaintance. I like him very very much. Oh, and he thinks me horrid! Oh!”

“Take another sniff,” advised Mrs. Blunt, “Of course, if Mr. Merceron is willing to let bygones be bygones, and just be an acquaintance—-“

“Oh, but I know he won’t. If you knew Charlie

“Knew who, Agatha?”

“Mr. Merceron,” said Agatha, in a very humble voice. “If you knew him at all, you’d know he wouldn’t do that.”

“Then you must send him about his business. Oh, yes, I know. You’ve treated him atrociously, but Calder Wentworth must be considered first; that is, if you care two straws for the poor fellow, which I begin to doubt.”

“Oh, I do, Mrs. Blunt!”

“Agatha, you shameless girl, which of these men—?”

“Don’t talk as if there were a dozen of them, dear Mrs. Blunt. There are only two.”

“One too many.”

“Yes, I know. You–you see I’m–I’m accustomed to Calder.”

“Oh, are you?”

“Yes. Don’t be unkind, Mrs. Blunt. And then Charlie was something so new–such a charming change–that—-“

“Upon my word, you might be your grandfather. Talk about heredity, and Ibsen, and all that!”

“Can’t you help me, dear Mrs. Blunt?”

“I can’t give you two husbands, if that’s what you want. There, child, don’t cry. Never mind me. Have another sniff.”

“I shall go home,” said Agatha. “Perhaps grandpapa may be able to advise me.”

“Your grandfather! Gracious goodness, girl, you’re never going to tell him?”

“Yes, I shall. Grandpapa’s had a lot of experience: he says so.”

“I should think he had!” whispered Mrs. Blunt with uplifted hands.

“Good-by, Mrs. Blunt. You don’t know how unhappy I am. Thanks, yes, a hansom, please. Mrs. Blunt, are you going to ask Mr. Merceron here again?”