‘Meet you? You don’t mean to say he used to meet you?’ whispered Ethelberta.
‘Yes,’ said Picotee; ‘but he could not help it. We used to meet on the road, and there was no other road unless I had gone ever so far round. But it is worse than that, Berta! That was why I couldn’t bide in Sandbourne, and—and ran away to you up here; it was not because I wanted to see you, Berta, but because I—I wanted—’
‘Yes, yes, I know,’ said Ethelberta hurriedly.
‘And then when I went downstairs he mistook me for you for a moment, and that caused—a confusion!’
‘O, well, it does not much matter,’ said Ethelberta, kissing Picotee soothingly. ‘You ought not of course to have come to London in such a manner; but, since you have come, we will make the best of it. Perhaps it may end happily for you and for him. Who knows?’
‘Then don’t you want him, Berta?’
‘O no; not at all!’
‘What—and don’t you really want him, Berta?’ repeated Picotee, starting up.
‘I would much rather he paid his addresses to you. He is not the sort of man I should wish to—think it best to marry, even if I were to marry, which I have no intention of doing at present. He calls to see me because we are old friends, but his calls do not mean anything more than that he takes an interest in me. It is not at all likely that I shall see him again! and I certainly never shall see him unless you are present.’
‘That will be very nice.’