The other woman was not listening. "Engaged to him!"—The words sang deliciously, disquietingly in her ears.
"But who said I was engaged to him?"
"He did, of course. He isn't ashamed of it—if you are."
"He told you that!"
"Yes. Now aren't you ashamed of yourself?"
Country-bred Betty, braced by the straightforward directness of Miss Voscoe, and full of the nervous energy engendered by a half-understood trouble, had routed, for a moment, the woman of the world. But only for a moment. Then Lady St. Craye, unable to estimate the gain or loss of the encounter, pulled herself together to make good her retreat.
"Yes," she said, with her charming smile. "I am ashamed of myself. I was jealous—I own it. But I shouldn't have shown it as I did if I'd known the sort of girl you are. Come, forgive me! Can't you understand—and forgive?"
"It was all my fault." The generosity of Betty hastened to meet what it took to be the generosity of the other. "Forgive me. I won't see him again at all—if you don't want me to."
"No, no." Even at that moment, in one illuminating flash, Lady St. Craye saw the explications that must follow the announcement of that renunciatory decision. "No, no. If you do that I shall feel sure that you don't forgive me for being so silly. Just let everything go on—won't you? And please, please don't tell him anything about—about to-day."
"How could I?" asked Betty.