"You asked for your sake, as well as for mine?"
"I asked for both our sakes."
"And," still stooping, her face hidden from him, she pierced to find the significance of that moonlight hand-clasp,—"and—she made you agree with her?"
"Agree with, her?—I was most dreadfully disappointed, and I had to tell her so.—How could I agree with her?"
"She might have made you."
"She didn't make me;—didn't try to, I'm bound to say."
"But,"—her voice breathed up to him now with a new gentleness,—a gentleness that, he well might think, covered heart-brokenness,—"but—you haven't quarreled with her,—on my account? I couldn't bear her to lose things, on my account. She thinks of you as a friend—values your friendship;—I know it,—I am sure of it,—even though she would not do this for you. Some hatreds are too deep to yield to any appeal; but it is friendship I know;—and I love her—in spite of everything."
She had murmured on and on, parting the ferns with her delicate hand, finding here and there a little cone, and as Sir Basil looked down at the golden hair, the pure line of the cheek, a great wave of thanksgiving for the surety of his freedom rose in him.
"Dear, sweet child," he said, "this is just what I would expect of you. But don't let that thought trouble you for one moment. I do think her wrong, but we are perhaps better friends than ever. You and I will always care for her"—Sir Basil's voice faltered a little as, to himself, the significance of these last words was borne in upon him, and Imogen, hearing the falter, rose, feeling that she must see as well as hear.
And as she faced him they heard Jack's cheery call: