“If it were only skin deep; but it is deeper, deep to the heart.”
The confidante gave a sad shrug of her shapely shoulders.
“Don’t say that yet,” she said; “you might repent of it.”
“You think so?”
“I don’t know what to think.”
The sky had darkened; the clouds had cast their cloaks of fire, and in the west one broad band of crimson and of gold held back the banners of the approaching night. From St. Antonia’s steeple came the chiming of the hour, slow, solemn tones that filled the silence with mysterious eddies of lingering sound.
Madge Ellison was still leaning over Betty’s chair, her hands touching her friend’s face.
“Try not to brood too much on it, dear. I know I am not much of a woman to give advice. You might say that I had no experience.”
“And I too much! Listen,” and she straightened in her chair, “can’t you hear people shouting?”
“Shouting?”