Betty turned and looked squarely at her mother, who had lost even the
semblance of nervousness in her deep maternal anxiety.

"Do you believe that I love Mr. North?"

"Yes, I do. And I know that he loves you. There is no mistaking the
way a man turns to a woman every time she begins to speak. But on that
score I have no fears. I know that you not only must have the high
principles of the women of your race, but that you are too much a
woman-of-the-world to enter upon a _liaison_, which would mean
constant lying, fear, blackmail by servants, and general wretchedness.
And I have perfect faith in him. Even a scoundrel will hesitate a long
while before he makes himself responsible for the future of a girl in
your position, and Mr. North is not a scoundrel but an honourable
gentleman. Moreover he knows that a scandal would ruin him in his
Puritanical State; and he adores his sons, who are prouder of him than
if he were ten Presidents. But the world can talk and continue to
talk, and to act as viciously about an imprudent friendship as about a
_liaison_, for it has no means of proving anything and likes to
believe the worst. Now, I shan't say any more. You are capable of
doing your own thinking. Only do think--please." Betty nodded to
her mother, and went to her boudoir and sat there for hours. Nothing
could have put the ugly practical side of her romance so precisely
before her as her mother's black and white statement, full of the
little colloquial phrases with which an un-ambitious world expresses
itself. Even for him, Betty reflected, she could not endure vulgar
gossip, and wondered how any high-bred woman could for any man.

"For what else does civilization mean," she thought, "if those of us
that have its highest advantages are not wiser and more fastidious