“This amuses you, Mary,” said Constance, “but you don't seem to reflect that it gives me pain.”
“I'm sorry, Constance, if anything I have said has given you pain,” spoke Fan. “At the same time I can't understand why it should: it must surely be a good thing to be—loved by a good man.”
“Then, Fan, you must feel very happy,” retorted the other, suddenly changing her tactics.
“I don't know what you mean, Constance.”
“What sweet simplicity! Do you imagine that we are so blind, Fan, as not to see how devoted Mr. Starbrow is to you?”
The girl reddened and darted a look at Mary, who only smiled, observing strict neutrality.
“You are wrong, Constance, and most unkind to say such a thing. You say it only to turn the conversation from yourself. No one noticed such a thing; but about Mr. Northcott it was quite different—everybody saw it.”
“I beg you will not allude to that subject again. When I have distinctly told you that it is annoying—that it is painful to me, you should have a little more consideration.”
“This grows interesting,” broke in Mary. “The conspirators have quarrelled among themselves, and I shall now perhaps discover in whose breast the evil thought was first hatched.”
The others were silent, a little abashed; Fan still blushing and agitated after her hot protest, fearing perhaps that it had failed of its effect.