"Yes," Sophia faltered, her face growing slowly scarlet. "There is a distinction, I see."
She wanted to cry, and she wanted to think; and she wanted to hide her face from his eyes, but had not the will to do it while he looked at her. Her head was going round. If she had misinterpreted Betty's words on the terrace, and it seemed certain now that she had, what had she done? Or, rather, what had she not done? She had fallen into Betty's trap; she had proclaimed her own folly; she had misjudged her--and him! She had done them foul, dreadful wrong; she had insulted them horribly, horribly insulted them by her suspicions! She had proved the meanness and lowness of her mind! While he had been thinking of her, and for her, still shielding her, as he had shielded her from the beginning--she had been slandering him, accusing him, wronging him, and along with him this young girl, her guest, her friend, living under her roof! It was infamous! Infamous! What had so warped her?
And then, as she sat overwhelmed by shame, a ray of light pierced the darkness. She looked at him, feeling on a sudden cold and weak. "But you--you have not yet explained!" she muttered.
"What?"
"How I can help you to--to----" Her voice failed her.
She could not finish.
"To Betty," he said, seeing her stuck in a quagmire of perplexities. "I do not want Betty."
"Then what did you mean?" she stammered.
"I never said I wanted Betty," he answered, smiling.
"But you said----"