“Ah, but I did not say that Miss Dalrymple had fallen in love. No, no, I think better of her. Even if she had not—but she must have cared! She would never have let him join them after all that had happened, unless she had intended to marry him. Her face is not like one of those horrid girls who lead men on just to throw them over. No, Millie. If you and Mr Wareham thought that of her, you were both shamefully unjust.”
“He did not think so.” She spoke with difficulty. “Fanny, I don’t think you understand. He would never blame Miss Dalrymple.”
A string of undecided questions ran through Lady Fanny’s mind, quick as lightning. “Shall I? Shan’t I?” She gave way, and inquired carelessly—
“Do you mean to tell me, seriously, that Mr Wareham was smitten?”
“Yes. The more I look back the more I think so.”
Millie spoke in a low voice. Her friend jumped up and kissed her.
“Goose!” A cry followed. “Good gracious! Millie! The thermometer!”
“Safe, safe, where you put it.”
“Oh, you’re a dear. You’re made to be experimented upon. Now let us see.”
With heads close together, hair mingling, and the thermometer on a table before them as if it were something which would go off if meddled with, it was studied. First Millie said she could see nothing. Turned delicately, a thread-like line revealed itself.