"Fate sometimes does force mischief on men and women," was Henrietta's retort, "and it ceases to be mischief—becomes something else, I'm not sure just what. But usually fate has nothing to do with the matter. It's we ourselves that course for mischief, like a dog for rabbits."
Del, in sudden disdain of evasion, faced her with, "Well, Henrietta, what of it?"
Mrs. Hastings elevated and lowered her shoulders. "Simply that you're seeing too much of Ross—too much for his good, if not for your own."
Del's sunshade was revolving impatiently.
"It's as plain as black on white," continued Mrs. Hastings, "that he's madly in love with you—in love as only an experienced man can be with an experienced and developed woman."
"Well, what of it?" Del's tone was hostile, defiant.
"You can't abruptly stop seeing him. Everyone'd say you and he were meeting secretly."
"Really!"
"But you can be careful how you treat him. You can show him, and everybody, that there's nothing in it. You must—" Henrietta hesitated, dared; "you must be just friendly, as you are with Arden and the rest of the men."
Hiram's daughter was scarlet. Full a minute, and a very full minute, of silence. Then Adelaide said coldly: "Thank you. And now that you've freed your mind I hope you'll keep it free for your own affairs."