THE BETTER SORT
"I don't understand," she repeated, "what has happened." But what I had already perceived was, on the contrary, that she very nearly, that she in fact quite remarkably, did understand. It was as if in my zeal I had given away my case, and I felt that my test was coming. She had been thinking all night with intensity, and Mrs. Bridgenorth's generosity, coupled with Mrs. Bridgenorth's promptitude, had kept her awake. Thence, for a woman nervous and critical, imaginations, visions, questions. "Why, in writing me last night, did you take for granted it was she who had swooped down? Why," asked Mary Tredick, "should she swoop?"
Well, if I could drive a bargain for Mary, I felt I could a fortiori lie for her. "Because it's her way. She does swoop. She's impatient and uncontrolled. And it's affectation for you to pretend," I said with diplomacy, "that you see no reason for her falling in love———"
"Falling in love?" She took me straight up.
"With that gentleman. Certainly. What woman wouldn't? What woman didn't? I really don't see, you know, your right to back out."
"I won't back out," she presently returned, "if you'll answer me a question. Does she know the man represented?" Then as I hung fire: "It has come to me that she must. It would account for so much. For the strange way I feel," she went on, "and for the extraordinary sum you've been able to extract from her."
It was a pity, and I flushed with it, besides wincing at the word she used. But Mrs. Bridgenorth and I, between us, had clearly made the figure too high. "You think that, if she had guessed, I would naturally work it to 'extract' more?"
She turned away from me on this and, looking blank in her trouble, moved vaguely about. Then she
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