"I haven't blamed you. No doubt it's natural you should. But then—why come here, Miss Ledstone?"
"How pretty you are!" Her eyes were fixed intently on Winnie's face. "Oh, it's not fair, not fair! It's not fair to—to anybody, I think. Do you know, your name's never mentioned at home—never—not even when we're alone?"
"That part of it is done in the letters, I suppose? What am I called? The entanglement, or the lamentable state of affairs—or what? I don't know, you see. If you don't talk about me, we don't talk much about you here either."
"Oh, well, it is—bad. But that's not what I meant—not all I meant, at least." She suddenly leant forward in her chair. "Does Godfrey ever talk of the people he meets besides ourselves?"
"No, never. I shouldn't know anything about them, should I?"
"Has he ever mentioned Mabel Thurseley?"
"Mabel Thurseley? No. Who is she?"
"They live near us—in Torrington Square. Her mother's a widow, an old friend of ours."
"No, Godfrey has never said anything about Miss Thurseley."
"She's rather pretty—not very, I think. They're comfortably off. I mean, as we think it. Not what you'd call rich, I suppose." She was remembering Mrs. Maxon.