That the girl had deliberately deceived him was plain,
enough, revealed now in both her manner and words. What her true
purpose might have been in apparently seeking his friendship at first
could not now be conjectured--indeed, made little difference--but it
was clear enough she really belonged to the Lacy crowd, and had no more
use for him.
Westcott was sorry for the turn things had taken; he made no attempt to
disguise this from his own mind. He was beginning to like Miss
Donovan, to think about her, to feel a distinct interest in her. Some
way she had impressed him deeply as a young woman of character and
unusual charm--a breath out of the East to arouse his imagination and
memory. He had begun to hope for a friendship which would endure, and
now--the house of cards fell at a single touch.
He could scarcely comprehend the situation; how a girl of her apparent
refinement and gentility could ever be attracted by a rough, brutal
type such as Ned Beaton so evidently was. Why, the man's lack of taste
in dress, the expression of his face, his ungrammatical language,
stamped him as belonging to a distinctly lower order.
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