THE BETTER SORT
Blessingbourne pursued, "but I never know, in such intense discussions, what strange impression I may give."
Her companion looked amused. "Was it intense?"
"I was," Maud frankly confessed.
"Then it's a pity you were so wrong. Colonel Voyt, you know, is right." Mrs. Blessingbourne at this gave one of the slow, soft, silent headshakes to which she often resorted and which, mostly accompanied by the light of cheer, had somehow, in spite of the small obstinacy that smiled in them, a special grace. With this grace, for a moment, her friend, looking her up and down, appeared impressed, yet not too much so to take, the next minute, a decision. "Oh, my dear, I'm sorry to differ from anyone so lovely—for you're awfully beautiful to-night, and your frock's the very nicest I've ever seen you wear. But he's as right as he can be."
Maud repeated her motion. "Not so right, at all events, as he thinks he is. Or perhaps I can say," she went on, after an instant, "that I'm not so wrong. I do know a little what I'm talking about."
Mrs. Dyott continued to study her. "You are vexed. You naturally don't like it—such destruction."
"Destruction?"
"Of your illusion."
"I have no illusion. If I had, moreover, it wouldn't be destroyed. I have, on the whole, I think, my little decency."
Mrs. Dyott stared. "Let us grant it for argument. What then?"
"Well, I've also my little drama."
"An attachment?"
"An attachment."
"That you shouldn't have?"
"That I shouldn't have."
"A passion?"
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