"My uncle told me—not Mrs. Vane," said Enid. "I should not believe a thing just because Mrs. Vane said it—nor my uncle, for his opinions all come from Mrs. Vane."
Her expressions were somewhat vague; but her meaning was clear. Cynthia flashed a grateful glance at her.
"You mean," she said, holding her graceful head a trifle higher than usual, "that you do not think that I am unwomanly—that I have disgraced myself—because I came here to nurse Mr. Lepel in his illness?"
"No! I should have done the same in your place—if I loved a man."
The color mounted to the roots of Cynthia's hair.
"You know that?" she said quickly. "That I—I love him, I mean? There is no use in denying it—I do. There is no harm in it. I shall not hurt him by loving him—as I shall love him—to the last day of my life."
"No; I should be the last person to blame you," said Enid very gently, "because I know what love is myself;" and then the clear color flamed all over her fair face as it had flamed in Cynthia's.
Cynthia bit her lip.
"You do not think," she said, with the impetuous abruptness which might have been ungraceful in a less beautiful woman, but was never unbecoming to her, "that because I love him I want to take him away from those who have a better right than I to his love? I learned to care for him unawares; I had given him my love in secret long before—before he knew. He knows it now; I cannot help his knowing. But I am not ashamed. I should be ashamed if I thought that I could make him unfaithful to you."
Enid looked at her, and admired. Cynthia's generosity was taking her heart by storm. But for the moment she could not speak, and Cynthia went on rapidly.