"Not in the least," Lady St. Craye found herself saying. "I came to see you—because—as I said."
"I don't think it is much use your coming to see me," Betty went on, "though, if you meant it kindly—But you didn't—you didn't! If you had it wouldn't have made any difference. We should never get on with each other, never."
"Really, Miss Desmond"—Lady St. Craye clutched her card-case and half rose—"I begin to think we never should."
Betty's ignorance of the usages of good society stood her friend. She ignored, not consciously, but by the prompting of nature, the social law which decrees that one should not speak of things that really interest one.
"Do sit down," she said. "I'm glad you came—because I know exactly what you mean, now."
"If the knowledge were only mutual!" sighed Lady St. Craye, and found courage to raise eyebrows wearily.
"You don't like my going about with Mr. Vernon. Well, you've only to say so. Only when you're married you'll find you've got your work cut out to keep him from having any friends except you."
Lady St. Craye had the best of reasons for believing this likely to be the truth. She said:
"When I'm married?"
"Yes," said Betty firmly. "You're jealous; you've no cause to be—and I tell you that because I think being jealous must hurt. But it would have been nicer of you, if you'd come straight to me and said: 'Look here, I don't like you going about with the man I'm engaged to.' I should have understood then and respected you. But to come like a child's Guide to Knowledge—"