“I wouldn’t put out fingers, if I were you; it isn’t safe—when, they are so pretty.” The intimacy was almost caressing; she leaned against it thankfully. Proud to show him that of the crying child there was not a trace, she determined on a swift glance at the past that would put him quite at ease.
“And you are coming back? Since this dreary business of the worsted right is over you won’t exile yourself any longer—and rob us? All your friends will be glad to have you again!”
“Will they indeed?” his eyes sought hers for a moment, seemed to see in them the past’s triumphant mausoleum, presented for inspection quite magnificently.
“Thanks, Camelia.” The boldness delighted him, delighted all of him except that grumbling prisoner who, in his dungeon, felt foolishly aggrieved. “Yes, I am coming back—since I am welcome,” he said, adding while they went along the road, “As for the worsted right, the right usually is worsted, in the first place. One must try to keep one’s faith in eventual winning.”
“Tell me,” said Camelia, feeling foundations quite secure, since each had helped the other, “Mr. Rodrigg’s opposition, that last speech of his—the satanic eloquence of it!—you don’t think—ah! say you don’t think me altogether responsible?”
“Would it please you—a little—to think you were?” The old rallying smile pained her.
“Ah, don’t! That has been knocked out of me—really! Don’t imply such a monstrous perversion of vanity.”
“I retract. No, Camelia, I don’t think you altogether responsible. The eloquence would always have been against us, its satanic quality was, I fear, your doing.”
“Yet, I meant for the best—indeed I did. Say you believe that.”
“Indeed, I do believe it, Camelia.”