"I don't care what Mr. Verinder thinks." And Moya began to coil her hair loosely for the night.
"But that's just it—a girl must care. She can't afford to allow anyone an opportunity to think unpleasant things about her. She has to guard her reputation very jealously."
"And I suppose I've been playing ducks and drakes with mine," Moya said, pushing home a hairpin.
"I don't say that, dear. What I say is that Mr. Kilmeny may misunderstand your interest in him."
"He may think I'm in love with him. Is that it?" flashed the girl.
"He might. Give a man's vanity the least chance and——"
A reckless impulse to hurt herself—the same which leads a man to grind on an aching tooth in heady rage—swept Moya like a flame.
"Then he would think the truth," she interrupted. "What's the use of denying it? I ... I'm in love with him."
"Moya." Lady Farquhar's protest came in a horrified gasp.
The young woman turned her slim body in the chair with supple grace so as to face her chaperon. Beneath the dark eyes spots of color burned through the tan.