"Yes," she said, with her charming smile. "I am ashamed of myself. I was jealous--I own it. But I shouldn't have shown it as I did if I'd known the sort of girl you are. Come, forgive me! Can't you understand--and forgive?"
"It was all my fault." The generosity of Betty hastened to meet what it took to be the generosity of the other. "Forgive me. I won't see him again at all--if you don't want me to."
"No, no." Even at that moment, in one illuminating flash, Lady St. Craye saw the explications that must follow the announcement of that renunciatory decision. "No, no. If you do that I shall feel sure that you don't forgive me for being so silly. Just let everything go on--won't you? And please, please don't tell him anything about--about to-day."
"How could I?" asked Betty.
"But promise you won't. You know--men are so vain. I should hate him to know"--she hesitated and then finished the sentence with fine art--"to know--how much I care."
"Of course you care," said Betty downrightly. "You ought to care. It would be horrid of you if you didn't."
"But I don't, now. Now I know you, Miss Desmond. I understand so well--and I like to think of his being with you."
Even to Betty's ears this did not ring quite true.
"You like--?" she said.
"I mean I quite understand now. I thought--I don't know what I thought. You're so pretty, you know. And he has had so very many--love-affairs."
"He hasn't one with me," said Betty briefly.
"Ah, you're still angry. And no wonder. Do forgive me, Miss Desmond, and let's be friends."
Betty's look as she gave her hand was doubtful. But the hand was given.
"And you'll keep my poor little secret?"
"I should have thought you would have been proud for him to know how much you care."
"Ah, my dear," Lady St. Craye became natural for an instant under the transfiguring influence of her real thoughts as she spoke them, "my dear, don't believe it! When a man's sure of you he doesn't care any more. It's while he's not quite sure that he cares."
"I don't think that's so always," said Betty.
"Ah, believe me, there are 'more ways of killing a cat than choking it with butter.' Forgive the homely aphorism. When you have a lover of your own--or perhaps you have now?"