Berny designated the bench and they sat on it, a space between them. Rose sat forward on the edge of the seat, looking at the strange woman whose business with her she could not guess.
“You’ve never seen me before, have you, Miss Cannon?” said Berny. “You don’t know who I am?”
The young girl shook her head with an air of embarrassed admission.
“I’m afraid I don’t,” she said. “If I’ve ever met you before, it must have been a long time ago.”
“You’ve never met me,” said Berny, “but I guess you’ve heard of me. I am the wife of Dominick Ryan.”
She said the words easily, but her eyes were lit with devouring fires as they fastened on the young woman’s face. Upon this, signs of perturbation immediately displayed themselves. For a moment Rose was shaken beyond speech. She flushed to her hair, and her eyes dropped. To a jealous observation, she looked confused, trapped, guilty.
“Really,” she said after the first moment of shock, “I—I—I really don’t think I ever did meet you.” With her face crimson she raised her eyes and looked at her companion. “If I have, I must have forgotten it.”
“You haven’t,” said Berny, “but you’ve met my husband.”
Rose’s color did not fade, but this time she did not avert her eyes. Pride and social training had come to her aid. She answered quietly and with something of dignity.
“Yes, I met Mr. Ryan at Antelope when we were snowed up there. I suppose he’s told you all about it?”