“I am very, very sorry that you believe I meant it that way,” said Rosamund, biting her lips.

“What did you mean?  You are older than I, you are certainly experienced; besides, you are married.  If you can give it a gentler name than insolence I would be glad—­for your sake, Mrs. Fane.  I only know that you have spoiled my ride, spoiled the day for me, hurt me, humiliated me, and awakened, not curiosity, not suspicion, but the horror of it, in me.  You did it once before—­at the Minsters’ dance; not, perhaps, that you deliberately meant to; but you did it.  And your subject was then, as it is now, Captain Selwyn—­my friend—­”

Her voice became unsteady again and her mouth curved; but she held her head high and her eyes were as fearlessly direct as a child’s.

“And now,” she said calmly, “you know where I stand and what I will not stand.  Natural deference to an older woman, the natural self-distrust of a girl in the presence of social experience—­and under its protection as she had a right to suppose—­prevented me from checking you when your conversation became distasteful.  You, perhaps, mistook my reticence for acquiescence; and you were mistaken.  I am still quite willing to remain on agreeable terms with you, if you wish, and to forget what you have done to me this morning.”

If Rosamund had anything left to say, or any breath to say it, there were no indications of it.  Never in her flippant existence had she been so absolutely flattened by any woman.  As for this recent graduate from fudge and olives, she could scarcely realise how utterly and finally she had been silenced by her.  Incredulity, exasperation, amazement had succeeded each other while Miss Erroll was speaking; chagrin, shame, helplessness followed as bitter residue.  But, in the end, the very incongruity of the situation came to her aid; for Rosamund very easily fell a prey to the absurd—­even when the amusement was furnished at her own expense; and a keen sense of the ridiculous had more than once saved her dainty skirts from a rumpling that her modesty perhaps might have forgiven.

“I’m certainly a little beast,” she said impulsively, “but I really do like you.  Will you forgive?”

No genuine appeal to the young girl’s generosity had ever been in vain; she forgave almost as easily as she breathed.  Even now in the flush of just resentment it was not hard for her to forgive; she hesitated only in order to adjust matters in her own mind.

Mrs. Fane swung her horse and held out her right hand: 

“Is it pax, Miss Erroll?  I’m really ashamed of myself.  Won’t you forgive me?”

“Yes,” said the young girl, laying her gloved hand on Rosamund’s very lightly; “I’ve often thought,” she added naively, “that I could like you, Mrs. Fane, if you would only give me a chance.”

“I’ll try—­you blessed innocent!  You’ve torn me into rags and tatters, and you did it adorably.  What I said was idle, half-witted, gossiping nonsense.  So forget every atom of it as soon as you can, my dear, and let me prove that I’m not an utter idiot, if I can.”