"I locked the door," said Betty. "Don't speak to me, please."
They were in the train before either broke silence. Betty's face was white and she looked old—thirty almost her aunt thought.
It was Miss Desmond who spoke.
"Betty," she said, "I know how you feel. But you're very young. I think I ought to say that that girl—"
"Don't!" said Betty.
"I mean what we saw doesn't necessarily mean that he doesn't love you."
"Perhaps not," said Betty, fierce as a white flame. "Anyhow, it means that I don't love him."
Miss Desmond's tact, worn by three days of anxiety and agitation, broke suddenly, and she said what she regretted for some months:
"Oh, you don't love him now? Well, the other man will console you."
"I hate you," said Betty, "and I hate him; and I hope I shall never see a man again as long as I live!"