"I wonder you are not ashamed to sit there and confess it," says Miss Beresford, suddenly, with a wrathful flash in her eyes. "I shall know how to believe you again. To say one thing to me one day, and another thing to another person another day, and——" Here she finds a difficulty in winding up this extraordinary speech, so she says, hurriedly, "It is horrible!"
"What is horrible?" bewildered.
But she pays no heed to his question, thinking it doubtless beneath her.
"At least," she says, with fine scorn, "you needn't be untruthful."
"Do you know," says Mr. Desmond, desperately, "you are making the most wonderful remarks I ever heard in my life? There is no beginning to them, and I'm dreadfully afraid there will be no ending."
"No doubt," scornfully, "you are afraid."
"If I allow I am," says Desmond, humbly, "will it induce you to explain?"
"You want no explanation," indignantly. "You know very well what you confessed a while ago,—that—that—'you were'! There!"
"Where?"
"Flirting with Olga Bohun!"