Maud looked appealingly at her: if only she would say that she understood, it would be something. But Lucia did nothing of the kind. She replied in a hard, cool voice.
"I see I made a mistake," she said. "I did wrong to tell you. It was a pity."
"No, no; not that!" cried Maud.
"Yes, just that," said Lucia. "I expect it is always a mistake to be absolutely frank with anybody as I have just been with you. Do you remember that I wondered whether in half an hour we should still be friends?"
Lucia suddenly became aware that she had lost her temper, and that, she knew, was never wise, unless something definite was to be got from it. She saw Maud's look of entreaty, of despair almost, and, after all, Maud had behaved quite splendidly about the more important part of her revelations. She instantly did her best to mend matters.
"Oh, I am such a beast," she said; "but, at any rate, I have always told you so, and I have always told you the worst I know about myself. I am a beast—I am. Of course, I shouldn't have done all these things; I know it perfectly well, really; but, darling, what would be the use of the General Confession if we never did what we ought not? We should have to get new Prayer-Books with the General Confession left out. But when I have done a thing, right or wrong, and it comes off the way I meant, I can't help being pleased and calling myself a little Bismarck. I will promise not to be a little Bismarck oftener than I can help. Now, what shall I do? Shall I tell Aunt Elizabeth and Aunt Cathie about my false headache, and the result of it? Maud, I don't believe it would be right. Aunt Elizabeth would certainly expire. That would add murder to my other crimes, which wouldn't mend matters. They might hang me for it."
Maud tried not to laugh, but the effect only made her red in the face first, and then the laugh came next. She knew she ought to have been serious, but she could not. And Lucia proceeded.
"Or ought I to tell him?" she said. "Oh, Maud, don't say 'Yes.' I should feel so unutterably cheap, and when I'm cheap I'm nasty, and he wouldn't like that. What a brute you are, dear! You've spoiled all my pleasure in being Bismarck. Don't speak till you have counted twenty slowly: I want to think."
Maud had only got to "fifteen," when Lucia interrupted.
