‘It’s very queer, then.’
‘Who did you think—?’
The speaking automaton, as though by defect of mechanism, stopped short.
‘Look straight at me. I shouldn’t have been surprised to hear that it was Luckworth Crewe.’
Nancy’s defiant gaze, shame in anguish shielding itself with the front of audacity, changed to utter astonishment. The blood rushed back into her cheeks; she voiced a smothered exclamation of scorn.
‘The father of my child? Luckworth Crewe?’
‘I thought it not impossible,’ said Beatrice, plainly baffled.
‘It was like you.’ Nancy gave a hard laugh. ‘You judged me by yourself. Have another guess!’
Surprised both at the denial, so obviously true, and at the unexpected tone with which Nancy was meeting her attack, Miss. French sat meditative.
‘It’s no use guessing,’ she said at length, with complete good-humour. ‘I don’t know of any one else.’