“What is no use?” Betty asked.
“Nothing is any use. All these years have made me such a coward. I suppose I always was a coward, but in the old days there never was anything to be afraid of.”
“What are you most afraid of now?”
“I don't know. That is the worst. I am afraid of HIM—just of himself—of the look in his eyes—of what he may be planning quietly. My strength dies away when he comes near me.”
“What has he said to you?” she asked.
“He came into my dressing-room and sat and talked. He looked about from one thing to another and pretended to admire it all and congratulated me. But though he did not sneer at what he saw, his eyes were sneering at me. He talked about you. He said that you were a very clever woman. I don't know how he manages to imply that a very clever woman is something cunning and debased—but it means that when he says it. It seems to insinuate things which make one grow hot all over.”
She put out a hand and caught one of Betty's.
“Betty, Betty,” she implored. “Don't make him angry. Don't.”
“I am not going to begin by making him angry,” Betty said. “And I do not think he will try to make me angry—at first.”
“No, he will not,” cried Rosalie. “And—and you remember what I told you when first we talked about him?”