“You will play beautifully, of course,” said Sara, submitting, even in her jealousy, to the charm and grace of her unconscious rival. “I have come on a difficult errand,” she added, abruptly; “you may not understand, but I hope—I believe—you will.”
She became so pale as she uttered these words that Brigit leant forward with a gesture of reassurance. In spite of her fragility she was, from the habit of self-control, a stronger spirit.
“You may be sure that I shall understand,” she said.
“Forgive me, then, but some enemy has circulated a report that you went to Mr. Orange's rooms in Vigo Street last Wednesday.”
A deep flush swept over Brigit's face.
“I was not there,” she said.
“I know,” said Sara. “I know you were not there. They made a mistake. It was I they saw—not you—it was I.”
Brigit dropped her eyes but made no other movement. She seemed to grow rigid, and the hand which had been playing with the fringe of her girdle remained fixed in its arrested action.
“You? It was you? How —— you?”
“I had to see him. So I went to him. Now he can easily deny that you were there. But he won't betray me. People must think what they please. But I am telling you—because you, at least, ought to know the truth.”