“You are free to speak your thoughts to me. I shall not be offended. What has he said to you about Frederic—and me?”
“Nothing, I swear to you; nothing!” cried the girl.
“But you have the power of observation. You do not have to be told in so many words. You have been with him a great deal, alone. His manner tells you what his lips hold back. Tell me.” Lydia resolved to take the plunge. Now was the time to speak plainly to this woman of the thing that was hurting her almost beyond the limits of endurance. Her voice was rather high-pitched. She had the fear that she would not be able to control it.
“I should be blind not to have observed the cruel position in which you are placing Frederic. Is it surprising that your husband has eyes as well as I? What must be his thoughts, Mrs Brood?”
She expected an outburst, a torrent of indignation, an angry storm of words, and was therefore unprepared for the piteous, hunted expression that came swiftly into the lovely eyes, bent so appealing upon her own, which were cold and accusing. Here was a new phase to this extraordinary creature's character. She was a coward, after all, and Lydia despised a coward. The look of scorn deepened in her eyes, and out from her heart rushed all that was soft and tender in her nature, leaving it barren of all compassion.
“I do not want to hurt Frederic,” murmured Yvonne. “I—I am sorry if———”
“You are hurting him dreadfully,” said Lydia, suddenly choking up with emotion.
“He is not—not in love with me,” declared Yvonne,
“No,” said the girl, regaining control of herself, “he is not in love with you. That is the whole trouble. He is in love with me. But—but can't you see?”
“You are a wise young woman to know men so well,” said the other enigmatically. “I have never believed in St Anthony.”