with me. Nobody--nobody," Miss Hugonin lamented, a forlorn little
quiver in her voice, "
ever
seemed to be honest with me except you,
and now I know you weren't. Oh, beautiful, aren't I ever to have any
real friends?" she pleaded, wistfully.
Kennaston had meant a deal to her, you see; he had been the one
man she trusted. She had gloried in his fustian rhetoric, his glib
artlessness, his airy scorn of money; and now all this proved mere
pinchbeck. On a sudden, too, there woke in some bycorner of her heart