“I am afraid we were,” was Betty’s impartial answer.

“I am sure it was my fault,” he said.  “Pray forget it.  Since you have accomplished such wonders, will you not, in the morning, take me about the place and explain to me how it has been done?”

When Betty went to her room she dismissed her maid as soon as possible, and sat for some time alone and waiting.  She had had no opportunity to speak to Rosy in private, and she was sure she would come to her.  In the course of half an hour she heard a knock at the door.

Yes, it was Rosy, and her newly-born colour had fled and left her looking dragged again.  She came forward and dropped into a low chair near Betty, letting her face fall into her hands.

“I’m very sorry, Betty,” she half whispered, “but it is no use.”

“What is no use?” Betty asked.

“Nothing is any use.  All these years have made me such a coward.  I suppose I always was a coward, but in the old days there never was anything to be afraid of.”

“What are you most afraid of now?”

“I don’t know.  That is the worst.  I am afraid of him—­just of himself—­of the look in his eyes—­of what he may be planning quietly.  My strength dies away when he comes near me.”

“What has he said to you?” she asked.

“He came into my dressing-room and sat and talked.  He looked about from one thing to another and pretended to admire it all and congratulated me.  But though he did not sneer at what he saw, his eyes were sneering at me.  He talked about you.  He said that you were a very clever woman.  I don’t know how he manages to imply that a very clever woman is something cunning and debased—­but it means that when he says it.  It seems to insinuate things which make one grow hot all over.”

She put out a hand and caught one of Betty’s.

“Betty, Betty,” she implored.  “Don’t make him angry.  Don’t.”

“I am not going to begin by making him angry,” Betty said.  “And I do not think he will try to make me angry—­at first.”

“No, he will not,” cried Rosalie.  “And—­and you remember what I told you when first we talked about him?”

“And do you remember,” was Betty’s answer, “what I said to you when I first met you in the park?  If we were to cable to New York this moment, we could receive an answer in a few hours.”

“He would not let us do it,” said Rosy.  “He would stop us in some way—­as he stopped my letters to mother—­as he stopped me when I tried to run away.  Oh, Betty, I know him and you do not.”

“I shall know him better every day.  That is what I must do.  I must learn to know him.  He said something more to you than you have told me, Rosy.  What was it?”

“He waited until Detcham left me,” Lady Anstruthers confessed, more than half reluctantly.  “And then he got up to go away, and stood with his hands resting on the chairback, and spoke to me in a low, queer voice.  He said, ’Don’t try to play any tricks on me, my good girl—­and don’t let your sister try to play any.  You would both have reason to regret it.’”