'You've all of you known it all the time,' went on the dreary voice, without anger, without hope. Anger had been spent before, on another of those who had 'known it all the time.' (The passionate fires of the days of reparation had burned resentment to ashes, and on these had dropped the tears of pity and pain.) Hope there was none. 'But Tommy and I--we've only got to know it lately, you see. We--we didn't understand before. But we understand now. We understand why--why you wouldn't be friends with us.' Prudence looked away sadly. It was terrible to have to accept it all so, denying nothing. She wanted to heal, but knew no way. In the pause Betty took up a cigarette-case from Tommy's chair, mechanically fingering it. Then abruptly she dropped it, and looked defiantly up. 'But lots of people do that--the other sort--your sort!' she cried. Imagination, in these days so morbidly alive, continually invented for her attacks unthought of, and called out defence to meet what needed none. For discrimination was of so new a growth. Prudence said quickly, 'But I know--oh, I know! Please don't!'--protesting, apologizing for the existence of this gulf, which had so yawned to exaggeration. Such an over-recognition of it as that last had implied hurt her more than what had gone before; it showed so vividly how the Crevequers staggered under their new knowledge, pitifully unsteady as yet on the fresh ground. She said presently, having thought things over: 'If I have been horrid, and hurt you, I beg your pardon. I am very sorry.' 'It's just you,' said Betty, 'out of all of you, you know, who oughtn't to say that. Because you pretended nothing. You kept everything back, all along, instead of--instead of giving everything but just one thing--oh, well.' She could not speak of that. She ended with half a laugh. 'Nobody, you know, could have thought for a moment that you liked us.' 'I suppose not,' said Prudence simply. She went on, with something between explanation and apology: 'You see, I'm not like Aunt Ida; I don't write.' Betty was grateful to her for making the comparison solely with her Aunt Ida. 'People to me are simply people....' Betty nodded. 'I know. Not--not copy.' 'And, you see, friendship isn't a name to me. It's something rather real and serious. I make friends slowly, I suppose.' 'And you didn't want to make friends with us. Oh, I know.' 'As I saw it, it wouldn't have been fair, you see,' Prudence explained very gently, looking away, asking forgiveness with her voice. Betty assented. 'No; it wouldn't have been very fair.' So their past intercourse was defined in few words. That done, Prudence turned to the present. 'But now--now it would be fair--if you will.' Betty shook her head. Prudence had supposed that she would. 'No, not now. That wouldn't at all do.' They rested on that for a minute before Betty went on. 'Tommy and I have got each other; and that is the way it must be, the way we've got to do it--don't you see?'