"No, no. I'm sorry. Forgive the ravings of delirium. Go on. Poor little Betty! Don't worry. Tell its own aunt."
"It's not a joke," said Betty.
"So I more and more perceive, now that I'm really waking up," said the aunt, sitting up and throwing back her thick blond hair. "Come, I'll get up now. Give me my stockings—and tell me—"
"They were under my big hat," said Betty, doing as she was told; "the one I wore the night you came. And I'd thrown it down on the chest of drawers—and they were underneath."
"My stockings?"
"No—my letters. Two of them. And one of them's from Him. It's a week old. And he says he won't live if I don't love him."
"They always do," said Miss Desmond, pouring water into the basin. "Well?"
"And he wants me to marry him, and he was never engaged to Lady St. Craye; and it was a lie. I've had a letter from her."
"I can't understand a word you say," said Miss Desmond through splashings.
"My friend Paula, that I told you about. She never went home to her father. Mr. Vernon set her up in a restaurant! Oh, how good and noble he is! Here are your shoes—and he says he won't live without me; and I'm going straight off to him, and I wouldn't go without telling you. It's no use telling father yet, but I did think you'd understand."