Then Betty astonished him. “I didn’t think he wanted any backing,” she said, her eyes bright. “He seemed to me to talk sense, and someone else nonsense.” “But you’re not——” “A partner in Ovington’s? No, Mr. Bourdillon, I am not—thank heaven! And so my head is not turned, and I can keep my temper and mind my manners.” “Oh, it’s Mr. Bourdillon now, is it?” “Yes—if you are going to behave to my friends as you did this afternoon.” “Your friends!” scornfully. “You include Rodd, do you? Rodd, Betty?” “Yes, I do, and I am not too proud to do so. Nor too proud to be angry when I see a man ten years younger than he is slap him in the face! I am not so spoiled that I think everyone beneath me!” “So it’s Rodd now?” “It’s as much Rodd now,” her cheeks hot, her eyes sparkling, “as it was anyone else before! Just as much and just as little. You flatter yourself, sir!” “But, Betty,” in a coaxing tone, “little spitfire that you are, can’t you guess why I was short with Rodd? Can’t you guess why I don’t particularly love him? But you do guess. Rodd is what he is—nothing! But when he lifts his eyes above him—when he dares to make eyes at you—I am not going to be silent.” “Now you are impertinent!” she replied. “As impertinent as you were mean before. Yes, mean, mean! When you knew he could not answer you! Mean!” And without waiting for a reply she ran up the stairs. He went to one of the windows of the dining-room and looked across Bride Hill and along the High Street, full at that hour of market people. But he did not see them, his thoughts were busy with what had happened. He could not believe that Betty had any feeling for Rodd. The man was dull, commonplace, a plodder, and not young; he was well over thirty. No, the idea was preposterous. And it was still more absurd to suppose that if he, Arthur, threw the handkerchief—or even fluttered it in her direction, for dear little thing as she was, he had not quite made up his mind—she would hesitate to accept him, or would let any thought of Rodd weigh with her. Still, he would let her temper cool, he would not stay to tea. Instead, he would by and by ride his new horse out to the Cottage. He had not been home for the weekend. He had left Mrs. Bourdillon to come to herself and recover her good humor in solitude. Now he would make it up with her, and while he was there he might as well get a peep at Josina—it was a long time since he had seen her. If Betty chose to adopt this unpleasant line, why, she could not blame him if he amused himself. CHAPTER XIV