Alban could keep silent no longer. 'We have done with the subject,' he said sharply.
'Because I am here?'
'Because we have said more than enough about Miss Jethro already.'
'Speak for yourself, Mr. Morris,' Emily answered, resenting the masterful tone which Alban's interference had assumed. 'I have not done with Miss Jethro yet, I can assure you.'
'My dear, you don't know where she lives,' Cecilia reminded her.
'Leave me to discover it!' Emily answered hotly. 'Perhaps Mr. Mirabel knows. I shall ask Mr. Mirabel.'
'I thought you would find a reason for returning to Mr. Mirabel,' Francine remarked.
Before Emily could reply, one of the maids entered the room with a wreath of roses in her hand.
'Mr. Mirabel sends you these flowers, miss,' the woman said, addressing Emily. 'The boy told me they were to be taken to your room. I thought it was a mistake, and I have brought them to you here.'
Francine, who happened to be nearest to the door, took the roses from the girl on pretense of handing them to Emily. Her jealous vigilance detected the one visible morsel of Mirabel's letter, twisted up with the flowers. Had Emily entrapped him into a secret correspondence with her? 'A scrap of waste paper among your roses,' she said, crumpling it up in her hand as if she meant to throw it away.
But Emily was too quick for her. She caught Francine by the wrist. 'Waste paper or not,' she said; 'it was among my flowers and it belongs to me.'
Francine gave up the letter, with a look which might have startled Emily if she had noticed it. She handed the roses to Cecilia. 'I was making a wreath for you to wear this evening, my dear—and I left it in the garden. It's not quite finished yet.'
Cecilia was delighted. 'How lovely it is!' she exclaimed. 'And how very kind of you! I'll finish it myself.' She turned away to the conservatory.
'I had no idea I was interfering with a letter,' said Francine; watching Emily with fiercely-attentive eyes, while she smoothed out the crumpled paper.
Having read what Mirabel had written to her, Emily looked up, and saw that Alban was on the point of following Cecilia into the conservatory. He had noticed something in Francine's face which he was at a loss to understand, but which made her presence in the room absolutely hateful to him. Emily followed and spoke to him.
'I am going back to the rose garden,' she said.
'For any particular purpose?' Alban inquired
'For a purpose which, I am afraid, you won't approve of. I mean to ask Mr. Mirabel if he knows Miss Jethro's address.'
'I hope he is as ignorant of it as I am,' Alban answered gravely.
'Are we going to quarrel over Miss Jethro, as we once quarreled over Mrs. Rook?' Emily asked—with the readiest recovery of her good humor. 'Come! come! I am sure you are as anxious, in your own private mind, to have this matter cleared up as I am.'
'With one difference—that I think of consequences, and you don't.' He said it, in his gentlest and kindest manner, and stepped into the conservatory.
'Never mind the consequences,' she called after him, 'if we can only get at the truth. I hate being deceived!'
'There is no person living who has better reason than you have to say that.'
Emily looked round with a start. Alban was out of hearing. It was Francine who had answered her.
'What do you mean?' she said.
Francine hesitated. A ghastly paleness overspread her face.
'Are you ill?' Emily asked.
'No—I am thinking.'
After waiting for a moment in silence, Emily moved away toward the door of the drawing-room. Francine suddenly held up her hand.
'Stop!' she cried.
Emily stood still.
'My mind is made up,' Francine said.
'Made up—to what?'
'You asked what I meant, just now.'
'I did.'
'Well, my mind is made up to answer you. Miss Emily Brown, you are leading a sadly frivolous life in this house. I am going to give you something more serious to think about than your flirtation with Mr. Mirabel. Oh, don't be impatient! I am coming to the point. Without knowing it yourself, you have been the victim of deception for years past—cruel deception—wicked deception that puts on the mask of mercy.'
'Are you alluding to Miss Jethro?' Emily asked, in astonishment. 'I thought you were strangers to each other. Just now, you wanted to know who she was.'
'I know nothing about her. I care nothing about her. I am not thinking of Miss Jethro.'
'Who are you thinking of?'
