Both of them laughed, and this rather cleared the air.
“It was very good of you to tell me,” said Mary. “Thank you. It’s so like me! When I’m agitated I become too appallingly absent-minded for words. That’s the sort of thing I do. How you must sneer—I mean, laugh at me, Mrs. Kellynch!”
“Indeed not! What an idea. It could happen to anyone.”
“Well, I came to see you for two reasons. One is this: Mrs. Kellynch, I want to beg your pardon. I’m very, very sorry.”
“For what, Mrs. Hillier?”
“For many things. I was horribly rude—I behaved shamefully at my party the other day. I must have been mad. I was so miserable.” She said this in a low voice.
Bertha held out her hand. The poor girl—she was not much more—looked so miserable, and had just looked so absurd! It must have been such a humiliation to know that one had called on one’s rival got up like a comedian—a singer of comic songs at the Pavilion.
“Mrs. Hillier, don’t say any more. I quite forgive you, and will not think of it again. Don’t let us talk of it any more. Have some more tea?”
“No, thank you, Mrs. Kellynch. This isn’t all. I have something else to tell you, and then I want, if I may, to consult you. I did a dreadful, dreadful thing! I don’t know how I could! Oh, when I see you—when I look at you and see how sweet and kind you are——”
Bertha, terrified that Mary would begin to cry and get hysterical, tried to stop her.