'I am sure he would,' said Bessie, thinking that by 'some one' herself was meant.
'O, I don't mean you,' said the woman, seeing the interpretation that Bessie put upon her words.
'Who do you mean, then?' asked Bessie, looking up quickly.
The woman laughed and shrugged her shoulders.
'Well!' she exclaimed. 'Some girls are blind! Thank goodness, the best man in the world couldn't blind me so!'
'What do you mean?' demanded Bessie, in an agitated tone, all the blood deserting her face. 'What have you to say against George?'
The woman laughed again.
'You've no cause to be jealous, Bessie,' she said, 'it's only a child. But I do think, if I was George's sweetheart'--Bessie's lip curled, and this little expression made the woman's tone more venomous--'I do think,' she added with scornful emphasis, 'that if I was George's sweetheart--O, you needn't curl your lip, Bessie!--I should ask him--who--Tottie's--father--was! A woman isn't worth that'--with a snap of her finger--'if she hasn't got a spirit.'
And George's discarded left Bessie white and trembling, with this wound in her heart.
Bessie looked after the woman, dazed for a few moments by the accusation conveyed in the words; then she became suddenly indignant, and the blood rushed back to her face and neck; it dyed her bosom, and she knew it and felt it, and felt the stab there also. Then she hurried home.