But Betty at first did not speak.  Her lovely eyes dwelt on the far-away place.

“Betty,” whispered Rosy, “do you know what you have said?”

The lovely eyes turned slowly towards her, and the soft corners of Betty’s mouth deepened in a curious unsteadiness.

“Yes.  I did not intend to say it.  But it is true. I know—­I know—­I know.  Do not ask me how.”

Rosalie flung her arms round her waist and for a moment hid her face.

“You!  You!” she murmured, but stopped herself almost as she uttered the exclamation.  “I will not ask you,” she said when she spoke again.  “But now I shall not be so ashamed.  You are a beauty and wonderful, and I am not; but if you know, that makes us almost the same.  You will understand why I broke down.  It was because I could not bear to think of what will happen.  I shall be saved and taken home, but Nigel will wreak revenge on him.  And I shall be the shame that is put upon him—­only because he was kind—­kind.  When father comes it will all begin.”  She wrung her hands, becoming almost hysterical.

“Hush,” said Betty.  “Hush!  A man like that cannot be hurt, even by a man like Nigel.  There is a way out—­there is.  Oh, Rosy, we must believe it.”

She soothed and caressed her and led her on to relieving her long locked-up misery by speech.  It was easy to see the ways in which her feeling had made her life harder to bear.  She was as inexperienced as a girl, and had accused herself cruelly.  When Nigel had tormented her with evil, carefully chosen taunts, she had felt half guilty and had coloured scarlet or turned pale, afraid to meet his sneeringly smiling face.  She had tried to forget the kind voice, the kindly, understanding eyes, and had blamed herself as a criminal because she could not.

“I had nothing else to remember—­but unhappiness—­and it seemed as if I could not help but remember him,” she said as simply as the Rosy who had left New York at nineteen might have said it.  “I was afraid to trust myself to speak his name.  When Nigel made insulting speeches I could not answer him, and he used to say that women who had adventures should train their faces not to betray them every time they were looked at.

“Oh!” broke from Betty’s lips, and she stood up on the hearth and threw out her hands.  “I wish that for one day I might be a man—­and your brother instead of your sister!”

“Why?”

Betty smiled strangely—­a smile which was not amused—­which was perhaps not a smile at all.  Her voice as she answered was at once low and tense.

“Because, then I should know what to do.  When a male creature cannot be reached through manhood or decency or shame, there is one way in which he can be punished.  A man—­a real man—­should take him by his throat and lash him with a whip—­while others look on—­lash him until he howls aloud like a dog.”