“It is a hard life, as I know, for I was once a governess myself.”

This admission, given so frankly, without the least hesitation, evidently quite surprised Miss Bennett.  With still greater curiosity than the fine room, she regarded the fine lady who had once been a governess, and was not ashamed to own it.

“Well, all I can say is, you have been very lucky in your marriage, Mrs. Grey; I only wish I might be the same.”

“That is exactly—­” said Christian, catching at any thing in her nervous difficulty as to how she should open such an unpleasant subject—­“no, not exactly, but partly, what I wished to speak to you about.  Excuse a plain, almost rude question, which you can refuse to answer if you like; but, Miss Bennett, I should be very glad to know if you are engaged?”

“Engaged by Miss Gascoigne?”

“No; engaged to be married.”

Miss Bennett drew back, blushed a little, looked much annoyed, and answered sharply, apparently involuntarily, “No!”

“Then—­excuse me again—­I would not ask if I did not feel it absolutely my duty, in order that we may come to a right understanding—­but the gentleman you were walking with yesterday, when you asked Letitia to meet you in Walnut-tree Court, was he a brother, or cousin, or what?”

Susan Bennett was altogether confounded.  “How did you find it all out?  Did the child tell?—­the horrid little—­but of course she did.  And then you set on and watched me!  That was a nice trick for one lady to play another.”

“You are mistaken,” replied Christian, gravely; “I found this out by the merest accident; and as I can not allow the child to do the same thing again, I thought it the most honest course to tell you at once of the discovery I made, and receive your explanations.”

“You can’t get them; I have a perfect right to walk with whom I please?”

“Most certainly; but not to take Dr. Grey’s little daughter with you as a companion.  Don’t you see, Miss Bennett”—­feeling sorry for the shame and pain she fancied she must be inflicting—­“how injurious these sort of proceedings must be to a little girl, who ought to know nothing about love at all—­(pardon my concluding this is a love affair)—­till she comes to it seriously, earnestly, and at a fitting age?  And then the deception, underhandedness—­can not you see how wrong it was to make secret appointments with a child, and induce her to steal out of the house unknown to both nurse and mother?”

“You are not her own mother, Mrs. Grey, it don’t affect you.”

“Pardon me,” returned Christian very distantly, as she perceived her delicacy was altogether wasted upon this impertinent young woman, who appeared well able to hold her own under any circumstances, “it does affect me so much that, deeply as I shall regret it, I must offer you a check for your three months’ salary.  Your engagement, I believe, was quarterly, and I must beg of you to consider it canceled.”