Betty's ignorance of the usages of good society stood her friend. She ignored, not consciously, but by the prompting of nature, the social law which decrees that one should not speak of things that really interest one. "Do sit down," she said. "I'm glad you came--because I know exactly what you mean, now." "If the knowledge were only mutual!" sighed Lady St. Craye, and found courage to raise eyebrows wearily. "You don't like my going about with Mr. Vernon. Well, you've only to say so. Only when you're married you'll find you've got your work cut out to keep him from having any friends except you." Lady St. Craye had the best of reasons for believing this likely to be the truth. She said: "When I'm married?" "Yes," said Betty firmly. "You're jealous; you've no cause to be--and I tell you that because I think being jealous must hurt. But it would have been nicer of you, if you'd come straight to me and said: 'Look here, I don't like you going about with the man I'm engaged to.' I should have understood then and respected you. But to come like a child's Guide to Knowledge--" The other woman was not listening. "Engaged to him!"--The words sang deliciously, disquietingly in her ears. "But who said I was engaged to him?" "He did, of course. He isn't ashamed of it--if you are." "He told you that!" "Yes. Now aren't you ashamed of yourself?" Country-bred Betty, braced by the straightforward directness of Miss Voscoe, and full of the nervous energy engendered by a half-understood trouble, had routed, for a moment, the woman of the world. But only for a moment. Then Lady St. Craye, unable to estimate the gain or loss of the encounter, pulled herself together to make good her retreat. "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.