Waythorn turned red. "When did you see her?" he asked.

"Not since the first day I came to see Lily--right after she was
taken sick. I remarked to her then that I didn't like the
governess."

Waythorn made no answer. He remembered distinctly that, after that
first visit, he had asked his wife if she had seen Haskett. She had
lied to him then, but she had respected his wishes since; and the
incident cast a curious light on her character. He was sure she
would not have seen Haskett that first day if she had divined that
Waythorn would object, and the fact that she did not divine it was
almost as disagreeable to the latter as the discovery that she had
lied to him.

"I don't like the woman," Haskett was repeating with mild
persistency. "She ain't straight, Mr. Waythorn--she'll teach the
child to be underhand. I've noticed a change in Lily--she's too
anxious to please--and she don't always tell the truth. She used to
be the straightest child, Mr. Waythorn--" He broke off, his voice a
little thick. "Not but what I want her to have a stylish education,"
he ended.

Waythorn was touched. "I'm sorry, Mr. Haskett; but frankly, I don't
quite see what I can do."

Haskett hesitated. Then he laid his hat on the table, and advanced
to the hearth-rug, on which Waythorn was standing. There was nothing
aggressive in his manner; but he had the solemnity of a timid man
resolved on a decisive measure.