As Mrs. Prideaux before her marriage had been the most open and shameless flirt, Angela could not but resent this remark. “I never flirted with Mr. Fane,” she said.
“How about his roses? I see you’ve given them back to him.”
This was purely a guess, based on an observation of glances during dinner and the absence of the flowers from Angela’s corsage. Miss Laurenson grew warmly red, and said nothing. Maud’s kindly inquisitive eyes searched her; she tapped her on the shoulder with her fan. “Come, tell me all about it. My dear child, what have you been doing? You’re like Lot’s wife, all tears.”
“Thank you, I’m not salt yet,” said Angela, whose eyes were still quite dry.
“Wasn’t it Lot’s wife? I don’t pretend to be clever; it wasn’t the fashion for girls to know anything in my day. What have you been saying to Bernard Fane?”
Sure of an interested listener, Angela told her tale. At its close she got a surprising shock. “Do you know what you ought to do now?” said Mrs. Prideaux.
“What?”
“Go right back and beg his pardon.”
“Maud! I’d rather die!”
“Yes, and to-morrow you’ll be dying—dying to go and do it, but it’ll be too late then. You’re simply desperately in love with him, can’t say his name without blushing—yes, there she goes, the colour of a poppy! The child says she’s not in love with him! Well, well!”