The maternal Sellars, drifting away, joined the others gathered together at the opposite end of the room.
“I suppose you think I set my cap at you merely because you were a gentleman,” said the Lady 'Ortensia.
“Don't let's talk about it,” I answered. “We were both foolish.”
“I don't want you to think it was merely that,” continued the Lady 'Ortensia. “I did like you. And I wouldn't have disgraced you—at least, I'd have tried not to. We women are quick to learn. You never gave me time.”
“Believe me, things are much better as they are,” I said.
“I suppose so,” she answered. “I was a fool.” She glanced round; we still had the corner to ourselves. “I told a rare pack of lies,” she said; “I didn't seem able to help it; I was feeling sore all over. But I have always been ashamed of myself. I'll tell them the truth, if you like.”
I thought I saw a way of making her mind easy. “My dear girl,” I said, “you have taken the blame upon yourself, and let me go scot-free. It was generous of you.”
“You mean that?” she asked.
“The truth,” I answered, “would shift all the shame on to me. It was I who broke my word, acted shabbily from beginning to end.”
“I hadn't looked at it in that light,” she replied. “Very well, I'll hold my tongue.”