"No, you are not," he answered.
"Not?" repeated Betty, with an incredulous lifting of her brows.
"You are charming and clever, but I rather suspect you of being a vixen.
At all events you are a spirited young woman and quick-witted enough to
understand the attraction you must have for the sordid herd."
And then he became aware--if not of an opening in her armour--at least
of a joint in it. For he saw, near her ear, a deepening warmth. That was
it. She was quick-witted, and she hid somewhere a hot pride.
"I confess, however," he proceeded cheerfully, "that notwithstanding my
own experience of the habits of the sordid herd, I saw one card I was
surprised to find, though really"--shrugging his shoulders--"I ought to
have been less surprised to find it than to find any other. But it was
bold. I suppose the fellow is desperate."
"You are speaking of----?" suggested Betty.
"Of Mount Dunstan. Hang it all, it WAS bold!" As if in half-amused
disgust.
As she had walked through the garden paths, Betty had at intervals bent
and gathered a flower, until she held in one hand a loose, fair sheaf.
At this moment she stooped to break off a spire of pale blue campanula.
And she was--as with a shock--struck with a consciousness that she
bent because she must--because to do so was a refuge--a concealment
of something she must hide.
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