"It's true. I've cared ... ever since we met him."
"And he—has he ever made love to you?"
"Never. He's thought only of Joyce. That's what makes it more shameless."
Lady Farquhar took a moment to absorb the unwelcome news. "I never dreamed it was as bad as this. Of course I knew he interested you a good deal, but——"
Moya could not keep scorn of herself out of her voice. "But you didn't think I was so lost to decency as to throw myself at his head. You see I am."
"Nonsense," cut in her chaperon with sharp common sense. "You're not the first girl that has fancied a man who won't do. It's imagination—a good deal of it. Make yourself forget him. That's all you can do."
"I can't do that. I've tried," confessed Moya miserably.
"Then try again—and again—and still again. Remember that you are engaged to a man worth a dozen of him. Call your pride to help you."
"It seems that I have none. I've told myself forty times that he's a highgrader and that doesn't help."
Her friend was alarmed. "You don't mean that you would marry a man who is a—a man who steals ore."