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Mr. Bradshaw’s frequent criticisms of her indulgence.
    ‘This is what comes of sentiment when dealing with servants,’ he said. ‘How many times have I spoken to you about it?’
    ‘It’s a great disappointment,’ was all she could offer in defence.
    The lie had been discovered through her innocent reference to the visits in her letter to Mary’s father. His reply that there was no relative in Dublin and his anxiety to know what exactly could be going on made Mrs. Bradshaw regret her mention of the matter. She was fond of Mary. She felt there could be nothing seriously wrong.
    ‘It was terribly wicked of you,’ she said, ‘your father is so upset. I’m quite certain he thinks we have been lax.’
    ‘I’m very sorry,’ Mary offered. There was nothing else she could say.
    ‘And what necessity was there for it?’ Mrs. Bradshaw asked. ‘I never refused you permission to go out.’
    Mary remained silent. She could not have asked permission week after week to see Fitz. People refused to trust young servants with young men. It was a part of their thinking to expect the worst. So she would have had to tell lies anyhow. There was no way out. Mrs. Bradshaw, in the absence of a reply, asked the question which her world considered unavoidable in such situations.
    ‘Have you been meeting any people? . . . I mean people of the opposite sex?’
    Mary flushed at the implication which, however delicately Mrs. Bradshaw strove to push it into the background, remained in the question itself. She determined on this occasion not to lie. It was better to be punished than to go on with the deceit.
    ‘I’ve been meeting a young man . . . the same young man,’ Mary said.
    The next question framed itself automatically, but Mrs. Bradshaw decided against asking it. She saw that Mary was suffering. Pity was always stronger in Mrs. Bradshaw than anger or anxiety.
    Mary, who understood the hesitation, said: ‘There’s been nothing wrong between us.’ She was glad that the lies had ended.
    ‘I believe you,’ Mrs. Bradshaw said.
    But Mr. Bradshaw was not so easily satisfied. His mind was quite made up and his conversation on the matter was punctuated by frequent raising and lowering of his perpetual newspaper.
    ‘She must go,’ he insisted.
    ‘The poor girl has done nothing wrong.’
    ‘We have only her word for it.’
    ‘I believe her.’
    The newspaper was lowered.
    ‘You also believed her about this ridiculous aunt.’
    Mrs. Bradshaw had no reply. She changed her voice and her tactics.
    ‘It seems such a pity to dismiss her.’
    ‘I fail to see why.’
    ‘I was thinking of the girl herself. We can’t give her a clear reference and without that she’ll find it impossible to get another position.’
    ‘She should have thought of that before she picked up with some young blackguard.’
    ‘They don’t have very much freedom. I’m sure it was all quite innocent.’
    ‘Innocent,’ Mr. Bradshaw repeated, bringing his newspaper down on his knees with a loud noise. ‘You mustn’t think these young girls are like yourself. They breed like rabbits. My God, woman, do you want her having babies all over the place?’
    Mrs. Bradshaw changed colour. He noticed. Mistaking the reason, he apologised.
    ‘Forgive me if I sound crude, but we must face facts.’
    It was not the crudeness which had upset Mrs. Bradshaw. In a small, dry voice she said: ‘I really don’t think it would arise.’
    ‘While there are hundreds of strong, willing and reliable girls to choose from, am I to sit by and see you saddled with an impressionable trollop. We pay for trustworthiness, my dear. We must make sure that we get it.’
    Mrs. Bradshaw said, quietly: ‘I liked her. She suited me.’
    ‘You are being sentimental again. It is a constant fault of yours.’
    ‘Perhaps I am,’ Mrs. Bradshaw admitted. ‘I don’t think it so wrong to want to forgive.’
    ‘Nonsense. She goes back to her parents. A servant is not like an ordinary employee.