These meditations were disturbed by Lady Randolph. Betty, as soon as she saw her kind friend, remembered that Lady Randolph had shown her this delightful nook, and had said that she (Lady Randolph) was in the habit of sitting here.
"You—alone?" said Lady Randolph. "I have just passed Harry Kirtling. He asked me if I knew where he could find you. Shall I tell him?"
"Pray don't," said Betty, making room for her friend on the stone bench. "And besides," she added, letting a dimple be seen, "you could not tell him where I was. I have spent the last hour in Stepney."
"I can't see you in Stepney, my dear."
"I thought you would say that," said Betty, nervously playing with the laces on her frock; then, reading the sympathy in the other's face, she burst out: "Oh—I'm a coward, a coward! I loathe Stepney."
Lady Randolph wondered whether it would be wise to speak. She cherished the conviction that when in doubt it is better to say nothing; and yet, in the end, despite a strong feeling that her advice would be wasted, she said quietly:
"I knew your mother."
"Am I like her?" interrupted Betty.
"I have often thought," continued the elder woman, ignoring Betty's question, "that if Louise de Courcy had had your upbringing her life would have been so different——"
"You mean she would not have married my father." Betty's voice hardened. "Well, if she felt as—as I feel, she would have married him anyway, if she loved him."