There had been interviews.

There was the first in which the elder Miss Desmond told her
brother-in-law in the plain speech she loved exactly what sort of a
fool he had made of himself in the matter of Betty and the
fortune-telling.

When he was convinced of error--it was not easily done--he would have
liked to tell Betty that he was sorry, but he belonged to a generation
that does not apologise to the next.

The second interview was between the aunt and Betty. That was the one
in which so much good advice was given.

"You know," the aunt wound up, "all young women want to be in love,
and all young men too. I don't mean that there was anything of that
sort between you and your artist friend. But there might have been.
Now look here,--I'm going to speak quite straight to you. Don't you
ever let young men get monkeying about with your hands; whether they
call it fortune-telling or whether they don't, their reason for doing
so is always the same--or likely to be. And you want to keep your
hand--as well as your lips--for the man you're going to marry. That's
all, but don't you forget it. Now what's this I hear about your
wanting to go to Paris?"

"I did want to go," said Betty, "but I don't care about anything now.
Everything's hateful."

"It always is," said the aunt, "but it won't always be."