"And men are fools, so there! Not another word about the barmaid!" cried
Sarah, dismissing the subject with a wave of her hand.
But men, too, sometimes like to have the last word, so I remarked: "The mother of the Duchess of York was a barmaid, at least, a barmistress."
"Yes, but is that any reason why Frances should be kissing this one?
Doubtless your friend Betty finds men enough to do the office."
"Sarah!" I cried, springing to my feet, now thoroughly angry. "If you were a man, I'd give you the lie direct!"
Sarah began to laugh and clapped her hands, saying: "I was leading you on. I suspected you were fond of her. Now I know it."
But Sarah's remark, being so near the truth, did nothing to allay my anger, so I told her she was a fool, and went into an adjoining room, where I found Frances and Bettina luxuriating in tearful sympathy.
I walked home with Bettina, and she invited me to go to her parlor to have a cup of tea. To see Bettina boil the tea (steep it or draw it, she said was the proper phrase) was as pretty a sight as one could wish to behold, and when she poured it out in thin china cups, handing one to me and taking one herself, her pride in following the fashion of modish ladies was as touching as it was simple and beautiful. It was almost more than my feeble resolutions could withstand, so when I was about to leave I had a great battle with myself and was defeated, for I seized her hands, and although I said nothing, she knew what was in my mind, so she hung her head, murmuring:—
"If you are willing to make me more unhappy than I am."
"Not for the world, Bettina," I answered, rallying against myself.
"Goodnight."
"Good night. Now I know you are my friend," she answered softly, holding my hands for a moment, then dropping them suddenly and turning from me.