"Yes," I said severely, "everybody was saying, 'Those two again!' And I didn't see you dance with Ranny at all after that." No; but it wasn't her fault. "It was quite understood he was to have the cotillion." "Then it was very wrong of you to dance the cotillion with Captain Boyne. It was making yourself conspicuous." She protested again that it wasn't her fault. "I kept them all waiting as it was. You saw how I kept them waiting for Ranny, till everyone was furious. And as he didn't come, I had to dance with whoever was there." "I suppose what made him angry was my going off for that horrid waltz after he had said he 'made a point of it'--I wasn't to dance again with 'that fellow.' And then, what do you think I said?" Bettina took hold of my arm, so I couldn't go on braiding my hair. "I said he was jealous of Captain Boyne, or why should he call him 'that fellow'? Even at the moment I felt how horrid that was of me; for it's not a bit like Ranny to be jealous in a horrid way, calling people 'fellows.' So I said: 'If the Boynes aren't nice, why are they here?' And Ranny said: 'Oh, Gerald Boyne's people are all right. His brother is all right. But I shouldn't want you to dance with Gerald if you were my sister. And if you were my wife, I should forbid it.'" "'But,' I said, 'I'm _not_ your sister!'--Betty tossed her head, laughing softly--'and I'm not your wife----'" I asked her if she had said it like that? Yes, she had. "And I said, too--I said it was 'fortunate.'" Then without the least warning, poor Betty sat down on the foot of her bed and began to cry. I put my arm round her. And she pulled her bare shoulders away. "You needn't think I'm crying about Ranny," she said. "I suppose it's being so angry makes me cry." "You are crying because you are over-tired," I said, and I began to take off her shoes and stockings. "I'm _not_ crying because I'm tired, but because"--she wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her nightgown--"it's a disappointment to see anyone so silly ... making 'points' of such things as waltzes." When she was ready for bed, she stood meditating a moment. And then: "Ranny has never struck me as one of the horrid, unforgiving sort of people. Has he you?" "Oh, no," I said, and I made her get into bed. I covered her up. But it was no use; she threw back the eiderdown, and sat bolt upright. "----asking me like that, _at a ball_, if I liked Captain Boyne best--a man I'd never seen before--don't you call it very rude?" "No; only a little foolish----" Another knock on the communicating door. "If you children keep on talking I shall have to come in." We promised we wouldn't say another word. But more than once Betty began: "Ranny----" "Sh!" I said.