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           WhatsheandIhadvirtuallysaidtoeachotherwasthatpretextswereuselessnow.WhenMrs.Grosefinallygotupshekeptthechild’shand,sothatthetwowerestillbeforeme;andthesingularreticenceofourcommunionwasevenmoremarkedinthefranklookshelaunchedme.“I’llbehanged,”itsaid,“ifI’llspeak!”

           ItwasFlorawho,gazingallovermeincandidwonder,wasthefirst.Shewasstruckwithourbareheadedaspect.“Why,whereareyourthings?”

           “Whereyoursare,mydear!”Ipromptlyreturned.

           Shehadalreadygotbackhergaiety,andappearedtotakethisasananswerquitesufficient.“Andwhere’sMiles?”shewenton.

           Therewassomethinginthesmallvalorofitthatquitefinishedme:thesethreewordsfromherwere,inaflashliketheglitterofadrawnblade,thejostleofthecupthatmyhand,forweeksandweeks,hadheldhighandfulltothebrimthatnow,evenbeforespeaking,Ifeltoverflowinadeluge.“I’lltellyouifyou’lltellme—”Iheardmyselfsay,thenheardthetremorinwhichitbroke.

           “Well,what?”

           Mrs.Grose’ssuspenseblazedatme,butitwastoolatenow,andIbroughtthethingouthandsomely.“Where,mypet,isMissJessel?”