“But of course she didn’t tell anyone—except me. And we both thought it very odd. But Gladdie couldn’t say anything, you see, because if it was known she’d gone out to meet a—a friend—well, it would have meant a lot of unpleasantness with Mrs. Pratt, that’s the cook, sir. But I’m sure she’d tell you anything, sir, willing.”
“Well, can I go to the kitchen and speak to her?”
Rose was horrified by the suggestion.
“Oh, no, sir, that would never do! And Gladdie’s a very nervous girl anyway.”
At last the matter was settled, after a lot of discussion over difficult points. A clandestine meeting was arranged in the shrubbery.
Here, in due course, Lawrence was confronted by the nervous Gladdie who he described as more like a shivering rabbit than anything human. Ten minutes were spent in trying to put the girl at her ease, the shivering Gladys explaining that she couldn’t ever—that she didn’t ought, that she didn’t think Rose would have given her away, that anyway she hadn’t meant no harm, indeed she hadn’t, and that she’d catch it badly if Mrs. Pratt ever came to hear of it.
Lawrence reassured, cajoled, persuaded—at last Gladys consented to speak.
“If you’ll be sure it’ll go no further, sir.”
“Of course it won’t.”
“And it won’t be brought up against me in a court of law?”
“Never.”
“And you won’t tell the mistress?”