"Yes, his sister. What does that prove? The father thought him guilty, and killed himself. As for the mother—who knows? At all events, she died—broken-hearted. Every penny the family possessed, after their great losses, went for Maxime's defense; but, except that his life was saved, it was in vain."
"You knew him—he was your friend—yet you believed in his guilt?"
"I hardly knew him well enough to call myself a friend. I admired him, certainly Max Dalahaide was the handsomest, wittiest, most fascinating fellow I ever met. Neither man nor woman could resist him, if he set out to conquer. Loria and he were like brothers; yet Loria thought with the rest of the world. He can't be blamed for disloyalty, either, for really there was nothing else to think, if one used one's reason."
"If he had been my friend, I would not have used my reason!" exclaimed Virginia. "What is the use of reason, when one has instinct?—and that is never wrong. But it is good of you to defend the Marchese, for I know you don't like him."
"Don't I?" echoed Roger. "If I don't, I'm afraid it is because you do. You won't have me, dear; you've told me that, and I don't mean to bother you again; but I'm weak enough to be jealous when I think there's danger of your saying 'Yes' to anybody else."
"I don't know that there is any such danger in this case," said Virginia. "But the Marchese is very handsome, and rather romantic, and he sings like an angel. Oh, yes, I am almost in love with him when he sings—or I was till yesterday. And how he dances! It's poetry. When I am waltzing with the Marchese Loria I invariably make up my mind that I will accept him next time he asks. Then, afterward, something holds me back. To-day, in that valley of shadows, he affected me quite differently. It was as if—as if the shadows had shut down between us. I saw him in the shadow, his features changed—repellent. As the French say, he 'made me horror.' Yet I didn't know why. Now I begin to understand. It was my precious instinct warning me, saying: 'This man is disloyal. Don't trust him.'"
"You are unjust," said Roger. "I should like to let you misjudge him, but I can't be a bounder, you know. He really behaved extremely well in the Dalahaide affair. The man couldn't believe, against a mountain of evidence; nevertheless, he did what he could for his friend, guilty as he thought him. All this happened four years ago, when you were a demure little schoolgirl—if you ever could have been demure!—in your own Virginia, not allowed even to hear of, much less read, the great newspaper scandals of the moment. I can't remember every detail of the affair, but it was said to be largely through Loria's efforts that Max was saved from capital punishment for his crime."
"You haven't told me yet what that crime was."
"Yes. I have said it was murder."
"Ah! but that is only a crude statement. I ask for the story."