When Betty came back with the tea-tray, her hair was twisted up. The kettle could be heard hissing in the tiny kitchen.
"Can't I help you?" Lady St. Craye asked, leaning back indolently in the most comfortable chair.
"No, thank you: it's all done now."
Betty poured the tea for the other woman to drink. Her own remained untasted. She exerted herself to manufacture small-talk, was very amiable, very attentive. Lady St. Craye almost thought she must have dreamed those two sharp cat-scratches at the beginning of the interview. But presently Betty's polite remarks came less readily. There were longer intervals of silence. And Lady St. Craye for once was at a loss. Her nerve was gone. She dared not tempt the claws again. After the longest pause of all Betty said suddenly:
"I think I know why you came to-day."
"I came to see you, because you're a friend of Mr. Vernon's."
"You came to see me because you wanted to find out exactly how much I'm a friend of Mr. Vernon's. Didn't you?"
Candour is the most disconcerting of the virtues.