"You are very kind—very good. But I don't see what it all has to do with me."
With a frank, almost an affectionate gesture, Lady Frances took both her hands, and, looking into her face, spoke the words for which she had so carefully prepared the way.
"If what I am going to say hurts you, you must forgive me. I feel such centuries older than you, that I can risk a great deal. Don't spoil your life, don't throw away your pleasure, because of one moral lecture! It isn't worth while. I know what I am saying. People like Walter Gore are reprehensible. They take themselves so seriously, that sometimes other people make the mistake of taking them seriously too; and then things go wrong."
Clodagh's face became a shade paler.
"I—I am stupid," she said. "I don't seem to understand."
"My dear! It is so hard to say it bluntly."
"Please say it bluntly."
For an instant the older woman hesitated before the coldness of Clodagh's tone; but the next, she took the opening offered her.
"You are deliberately turning away from the best in life because some one, in a moment of enthusiasm, preached you a sermon. You make the mistake of thinking that Walter Gore did something unusual when he warned you against cards and roulette—against Lord Deerehurst and Val Serracauld and me—whereas, Walter was born to preach!"
Clodagh's lips parted. Lady Frances had justified herself. Gore had spoken of that last interview. But why? And how?