"Bettina!" I whispered. "Don't encourage that strange man to stare in here."
I told her again that she encouraged him. But I was handicapped by not being able to say just how. I admitted that what she did was very slight. But it was enough. "It was what you did to Eddie Monmouth." Then, because she pretended not to understand, I told her that she was falling into bad deceitful ways. I knew she had written to Ranny Dallas.... Yes, and kept writing, though the moment I realised what was going on I wrote to Ranny myself. I said if any more letters came from him, I should have to tell Betty about the girl in Norfolk. Ranny wrote back that he had told Betty himself! And still they went on corresponding, secretly. I said to her now, that I should hardly be surprised if she was hoping to meet Ranny in London.
"Oh, one may 'hope' almost anything," said Betty airily.
"Not of a man who is engaged to another girl!"
"Yes," said Betty; "as long as he isn't married...."
Then, rather frightened, I asked outright if she was really expecting to meet Ranny somewhere.
"How can I say? He is fond of the opera," she said in a very superior, grown-up way. "I _might_ happen to see him some night in the throng----"
"In the throng! Betty," I said. "You have given Ranny Dallas your address."
"No," she said; "but I've given it to Tom Courtney."
Tom Courtney was Ranny's red-haired friend. "If you had watched," Betty said, "you would know that I was corresponding with Tom Courtney, too. Chiefly about Ranny. Tom Courtney is a splendid friend. He explains things much better than Ranny can. And then" (Betty's momentary annoyance vanished in laughter)--"then, too, Tom can spell--beautifully!"
"I knew you'd be horrified," Betty said again, "and that is why I have to keep things from you. You are a sort of nun. _You_ never feel as if all your blood had been whipped to a syllabub. And besides----"
"I do like nice men. I don't mind their knowing. And I don't mean to be an old maid. _You_ wouldn't care."
"You think I wouldn't?" I had no time to say more, for the train stopped. We thought at first we had reached Victoria Station, but it was only Clapham Junction. The "staring" man passed once more, with a porter behind carrying golf-clubs and portmanteau. Our carriage, too, was emptying. The people stood and reached things down from the racks, and then filed out. When the train went on we were alone.