“There! I am a nasty, horrid thing. Forgive me. Come! Don't be stubborn. Shake hands with me and say that you're sorry I said what I did.”
It was a quaint way of putting it, and her voice was so genuinely appealing that Lydia, after a moment's hesitation, extended her hands. Mrs Brood grasped them in hers and gripped them tightly.
“I think I should like to know that you are my friend, Lydia. Has it occurred to you that I am utterly without friends in this great city of yours? I have my husband, that is all. Among all these millions of people there is not one who knows that I exist. Isn't it appalling? Can you imagine such a condition? There is not one to whom I can give an honest smile. Nor am I likely to have many friends here. Indeed, I shall not lift my finger to gain them. You will know me better one day, Lydia, and you will understand. But now—to-day, to-morrow—now—I must have someone to whom I may offer my friendship and have something to hope for in return.”
Lydia could hardly credit her ears.
“I am sure you will have many friends, Mrs Brood,” she began, vaguely uncomfortable.
“I don't want them,” cried the other sharply. “Poof! Are friends to be made in a day? No! Admirers, yes. Enemies, yes. But friends, no. I shall have no real friends here. It isn't possible. I am not like your people. I cannot become like them. I shall know people and like them, no doubt, but—poof! I shall not have them for friends.”
“I can't understand why you want me for a friend,” said Lydia stiffly. “My position here is not what——”
Mrs Brood had not released the girl's hands. She interrupted her now by dropping them as if they were of fire.
“You don't want to be my friend?”
“Yes, yes—of course——”