Olive was silent, not by any means from guilt or confusion, but because she was struggling against an unwonted anger. She thought of a good many things to say in regard to this unwarrantable interference with her affairs, but she did not say one of them. Instead, she looked down at Miss Torrance, who was working away in hot haste, and every one of her friend’s generosities and queer little kindnesses rose up before her. She crossed the room and knelt by the other woman’s side, putting an arm about her shoulders.
“Oh, my dear!” she said gently. “If I’ve done anything to—to hurt you, can’t you forgive me?”
“It’s not that,” said Miss Torrance, in a hard, cold voice. “I’ve nothing to forgive. It’s simply that I’ve—I’ve made a fool of myself.” The tears were rolling down her cheeks, but she pretended not to know it. “I’ve made the worst sort of fool of myself—and I will not face that man again! I will not!”
“But, darling,” said Olive gently, “if you feel like that, we’ll both go.”
“No!” cried Miss Torrance, with a loud sob. “I will not come between you and your precious Mr. Martin!”
“What do you mean?” said Olive. “I don’t—” She stopped. “That’s silly, darling,” she went on, in an airy sort of way. “I’ve forgotten all about Mr. Martin, and he’s gone off to sea and forgotten all about me, long ago.”
“He has not!” said Miss Torrance. “He wrote you two letters, and I tore them up. Take your arm away, please, and let me get up!”
Olive, too, had risen.
“My letters!” she said faintly. “I didn’t think you would—”
“Well, now you know,” said Miss Torrance. “Now you know what a—a beast I am!”