At first Betty looked on in cold contempt. Lady St. Craye had counted on that: she let herself go, wholly. If it ended in hysterics so much the more impressive. She thought of Vernon, of all the hopes of these months, of the downfall of them—everything that should make it impossible for her to stop crying.
"Don't distress yourself," said Betty, very chill and distant.
"Can you—can you lend me a handkerchief?" said the other unexpectedly, screwing up her own drenched cambric in her hand.
Betty fetched a handkerchief.
"I haven't any scent," she said. "I'm sorry."
That nearly dried the tears—but not quite: Lady St. Craye was a persevering woman.
Betty watching her, slowly melted, just as the other knew she would. She put her hand at last on the shoulder of the light coat.
"Come," she said, "don't cry so. I'm sure there's nothing to be so upset about—"
Then came to her sharp as any knife, the thought of what there might be.
"There's nothing wrong with anyone? There hasn't been an accident or anything?"