But Jeffrey understood her. He, too, believed Madame Beattie had a decency of her own.
"Never mind," said he. "Only I want to keep you as you are. So would father. And Anne."
Lydia sat straight in her chair, her cheeks scarlet from excitement, her eyes speaking with the full power of their limpid beauty. What if she were to tell him how they talked of Esther and her cruelty, and of him and his misfortunes, and of the need of his at once setting out to reconstruct his life? But it would not do. This youth here astride the chair didn't seem like the Jeff who was woven into all she could imagine of tragedy and pain. He looked like the Jeff she had heard the colonel tell about, who had been reckless and impulsive and splendid, and had been believed in always and then had grown up into a man who made and lost money and was punished for it. He was speaking now in his new coaxing voice.
"There's one thing you could tell me. That wouldn't do any harm."
"What?" asked Lydia.
"Your old crony must have mentioned the night we ran away with Weedon Moore's automobile."
"Oh, yes," said Lydia. Her eyes were eloquent now. "She told me."
"Did she tell you what she said to Weedon's crowd, to turn them round like a flock of sheep and bring them over to us?"
"Oh, yes, she told me."
"What was it?"