“Do you mean to say that you had the dreadful cheek to let the Lady Abbess see that?” said Jane.

“Pooh! she would have forgiven that.  You should have heard what I said to her!  She fainted three times.”

“That’s a story,” said Gertrude gravely.

“I beg your pardon,” said Agatha, swiftly grasping Gertrude’s knee.

“Nothing,” cried Gertrude, flinching hysterically.  “Don’t, Agatha.”

“How many times did Miss Wilson faint?”

“Three times.  I will scream, Agatha; I will indeed.”

“Three times, as you say.  And I wonder that a girl brought up as you have been, by moral force, should be capable of repeating such a falsehood.  But we had an awful row, really and truly.  She lost her temper.  Fortunately, I never lose mine.”

“Well, I’m browed!” exclaimed Jane incredulously.  “I like that.”

“For a girl of county family, you are inexcusably vulgar, Jane.  I don’t know what I said; but she will never forgive me for profaning her pet book.  I shall be expelled as certainly as I am sitting here.”

“And do you mean to say that you are going away?” said Jane, faltering as she began to realize the consequences.

“I do.  And what is to become of you when I am not here to get you out of your scrapes, or of Gertrude without me to check her inveterate snobbishness, is more than I can foresee.”

“I am not snobbish,” said Gertrude, “although I do not choose to make friends with everyone.  But I never objected to you, Agatha.”

“No; I should like to catch you at it.  Hallo, Jane!” (who had suddenly burst into tears):  “what’s the matter?  I trust you are not permitting yourself to take the liberty of crying for me.”

“Indeed,” sobbed Jane indignantly, “I know that I am a f—­fool for my pains.  You have no heart.”

“You certainly are a f—­fool, as you aptly express it,” said Agatha, passing her arm round Jane, and disregarding an angry attempt to shake it off; “but if I had any heart it would be touched by this proof of your attachment.”

“I never said you had no heart,” protested Jane; “but I hate when you speak like a book.”

“You hate when I speak like a book, do you?  My dear, silly old Jane!  I shall miss you greatly.”

“Yes, I dare say,” said Jane, with tearful sarcasm.  “At least my snoring will never keep you awake again.”

“You don’t snore, Jane.  We have been in a conspiracy to make you believe that you do, that’s all.  Isn’t it good of me to tell you?”

Jane was overcome by this revelation.  After a long pause, she said with deep conviction, “I always knew that I didn’t.  Oh, the way you kept it up!  I solemnly declare that from this time forth I will believe nobody.”

“Well, and what do you think of it all?” said Agatha, transferring her attention to Gertrude, who was very grave.

“I think—­I am now speaking seriously, Agatha—­I think you are in the wrong.”