"But promise you won't. You know—men are so vain. I should hate him to know"—she hesitated and then finished the sentence with fine art—"to know—how much I care."
"Of course you care," said Betty downrightly. "You ought to care. It would be horrid of you if you didn't."
"But I don't, now. Now I know you, Miss Desmond. I understand so well—and I like to think of his being with you."
Even to Betty's ears this did not ring quite true.
"You like—?" she said.
"I mean I quite understand now. I thought—I don't know what I thought. You're so pretty, you know. And he has had so very many—love-affairs."
"He hasn't one with me," said Betty briefly.
"Ah, you're still angry. And no wonder. Do forgive me, Miss Desmond, and let's be friends."
Betty's look as she gave her hand was doubtful. But the hand was given.
"And you'll keep my poor little secret?"