"Don't," a reproachful glance from under her long fringed lashes, "that is not kind."
"But they are such tempting fingers," he whispers apologetically.
"Come, draw up that chair and sit beside me like a doctor, only I want you to heal my sorrows. I have got such a horrid wound here," pressing her heart. "But first of all, was I wrong to telegraph? Are you angry, Mr. Quinton?"
"It was delightful of you," he murmurs, looking down on her with all his eyes. "Dear Mrs. Roche, I thank you from my soul. Only let me be your confidant—your friend!"
"Have you been to Giddy's?" she asks eagerly.
"No, what do you take me for? Was I not commanded to come here instead?"
"Giddy is no longer my friend; she has treated me abominably—snubbed and insulted me in my own house, simply because I wanted to bring my parents to her stupid party. They are the dearest old people from the country, not gifted with her false Society airs. I was only a farmer's daughter, you know. She taunted me with meeting you at her house and being ashamed of my parents. Bah! it sickens me."
She flung her head back with an air of offended dignity, her eyes flashing at the remembrance of Giddy's stinging phrases.
"The impudent little fiend!" mutters Quinton through his teeth. "How dare she?"
"Oh, she dares very well. I am in mortal terror of her tongue. We are utterly at the mercy of our friends; these people call themselves friends, though they deal us the bitterest cuts, the cruellest contumely."