She had known that Remenham House would be deserted, for Martha—released, as she had carefully explained to her charge, by her vows to God from servitude and obedience to Nicholas Charvill, a mere mortal—had begun a correspondence with a friend of her youth, Mrs Joan Ibstock, née Pottiswick. If you met her you would, I am certain, think her as fine as I do. But it is no longer necessary. “We’re going to be found out someday. Bit priggish, isn’t it? And if he only knew it—so absurd. Manning,” she said, “for a time—Will you tell no one? Will you keep this—our secret? I’m doubtful—Will you please not even tell my aunt?” “As you will,” he said. She recognized the cloth at once, waylaid him, and with that directness of speech particularly hers she explained what she wanted. But I won't be cheated of my prize.
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