He thought, naturally enough, that she had heard of Florence's secret interviews with Sydney Vane—so much, he was certain, even the village-people knew—that in her visits to the cottages she had heard some story of this kind, and had been distressed—that was all.
"Do you really think so?" said Enid, clinging to him. She was only too thankful to get rid of the responsibility of judging for herself. "You do not think that uncle Richard ought to know?"
"My dear girl, what an idea! Certainly not! Do you want to break the old man's heart?"
"He is very fond of little Dick," murmured Enid, rather to herself than to him.
He did not lay hold of the clue that her words might have given him if he had attended to them more closely. He went on encouragingly—
"And of his wife too. No, dear, we cannot wreck his happiness by scruples of that kind. We must endure our knowledge—or our suspicions—in silence. Besides, what you have heard may not be true."
"Do you think so, Hubert?" she said wistfully.
"It is better surely to take a charitable view, is it not?"
"Oh, thank you! That is just what I wanted!" she said, a new brightness stealing into her eyes and cheeks. "Yes, I am sure that I must have been hard and uncharitable. I will try to think better things. And, oh, Hubert, you have really made me happy now!"
"That is what I wanted," said Hubert, with a sigh, as for the first time he pressed his lips to hers. "Your happiness, Enid, is all that I wish to secure."