Edith Nesbit

“ Craye the one possible, the one important thing. So after she had given a few days to the analysis of that kiss, had failed to reach certainty as to its elements, had writhed in her failure, and bitterly resented the mysteries constituent that falsified all her calculations, she dressed herself beautifully, and went to call on the constituent, Betty. ”

“ Vernon was to come to fetch her at seven. She would not face him. Let him go and dine with the woman he belonged to!
Betty went out at half-past six. She would not go to Garnier's, nor to Thirion's. That was where he would look for her.
She walked steadily on, down the boulevard. She would dine at some place she had never been to before. A sickening vision of that first night in Paris swam before her. She saw again the Café d'Harcourt, heard the voices of the women who had spoken to Paula, saw the eyes of the men who had been the companions of those women. ”

“ Vernon's. Didn't you?"
Candour is the most disconcerting of the virtues.
"Not in the least," Lady St. Craye found herself saying. "I came to see you—because—as I said."
"I don't think it is much use your coming to see me," Betty went on, "though, if you meant it kindly—But you didn't—you didn't! If you had it wouldn't have made any difference. We should never get on with each other, never."
"Really, Miss Desmond"—Lady St. Craye clutched her card-case and half rose—"I begin to think we never should."
Betty's ignorance of the usages of good society stood her friend. ”

“ Craye, and found courage to raise eyebrows wearily.
"You don't like my going about with Mr. Vernon. Well, you've only to say so. Only when you're married you'll find you've got your work cut out to keep him from having any friends except you."
Lady St. Craye had the best of reasons for believing this likely to be the truth. She said:
"When I'm married?"
"Yes," said Betty firmly. "You're jealous; you've no cause to be—and I tell you that because I think being jealous must hurt. ”

“ I'm tired of Garnier's and Thirion's."
He hesitated. And he, too, remembered the night at the Café d'Harcourt, when she had disdained his advice and gone back to take the advice of Paula.
He caught himself assuring himself that a man need not be ashamed to risk being snubbed—making a fool of himself even—if he could do any good. So he said: "You know I have horrid old-fashioned ideas about women," and stopped short.
"Don't you know of any good quiet place near here?" said Betty.
"I think women ought to be taken care of. ”

“ Not like the stiff solid heavy velvet roses with thick green leaves and heaps of thorns. Those are the roses one longs for."
"Yes," he said. "Those are the roses one longs for." And an odd pause punctuated the sentence.
But the pause did not last. There was so much to talk of—now that barrier of resentment, wattled with remorse, was broken down. ”