That any one wearing the exotic name
"Clotilde" should write to Bertie under the incriminating announcement
"as ever" was sufficiently electrifying, without the astounding allusion
to the jewels. Mrs. Heasant could recall novels and dramas wherein
jewels played an exciting and commanding role, and here, under her own
roof, before her very eyes as it were, her own son was carrying on an
intrigue in which jewels were merely an interesting detail. Bertie was
not due home for another hour, but his sisters were available for the
immediate unburdening of a scandal-laden mind.
"Bertie is in the toils of an adventuress," she screamed; "her name is
Clotilde," she added, as if she thought they had better know the worst at
once. There are occasions when more harm than good is done by shielding
young girls from a knowledge of the more deplorable realities of life.
By the time Bertie arrived his mother had discussed every possible and
improbable conjecture as to his guilty secret; the girls limited
themselves to the opinion that their brother had been weak rather than
wicked.
"Who is Clotilde?" was the question that confronted Bertie almost before
he had got into the hall.
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