“Yes,” replied Agnes, judging rightly that Clare would be less affected by hearing the worst than if she were left in suspense. “Yes. Claude Westwood said those words—then you”—
“Yes, but why—why—why?” cried the girl. “Why should he say such words, when only a couple of hours before—I don't think it could have been more than a couple of hours before, though if you were to tell me that it was days before I would believe you—at any rate, hours or days, he told me that he loved me—yes, and that we must get married at once. And yet he said those words?”
“Dearest child,” said Agnes, “you must think no more about him. He should never have entered into your life. Have you never heard of the inconstancy of man?”
“I have heard more about the inconstancy of woman,” said the girl. “But even if I had heard that all men are inconstant in love I would not believe that Claude Westwood was inconstant. You must tell me some better story than that if you wish me to believe you.”
“Inconstant? Inconstant? Ah, if you but knew, Clare.”
“I do know. I know that it is a lie. He is a true man. I love him and he loves me. It is you who are not constant in your friendships. You profess to care for me”—
“It is because I do care for you that”——-
“That you tell me what is false?”
Agnes burst into tears.
Clare for a moment was rebellious. The effect of the anger, under the impulse of which she had made use of those bitter words, supported her; but in another moment she was on her knees beside her friend, with an arm round her waist, while she covered her hand with kisses.