Lona.
Now you are frightened.—You once loved me, you say? Yes, you assured me so, often enough, in your letters; and perhaps it was true, too—after a fashion—so long as you were living out there in a great, free world, that gave you courage to think freely and greatly yourself. Perhaps you found in me a little more character, and will, and independence than in most people at home here. And then it was a secret between us two; no one could make fun of your bad taste.
Bernick.
Lona, how can you think?
Lona.
But when you came home; when you saw the ridicule that poured down upon me; when you heard the laughter at what were called my eccentricities
Bernick.
You were inconsiderate in those days.
Lona.
Mainly for the sake of annoying the prudes, both in trousers and petticoats, that infested the town. And then you fell in with that fascinating young actress
Bernick.
The whole thing was a piece of folly—nothing more. I swear to you, not a tithe of the scandal and tittletattle was true.
Lona.
Perhaps not; but then Betty came home—young, beautiful, idolised by every one—and when
