“Only enough, I am sure, to wish to shield him.”
“I could never have suspected. He is an old friend, a trusted friend. I must speak to him.”
“Let me speak to him—may I? I will walk home with him to-night.”
A certain relief in Madame Vicaud was taking a long, deep breath, and nothing could more clearly have assured him of the position he held in her eyes than the half-hesitating yet half-assenting consideration she gave to his rather odd proposal.
“But,” she said, “will he not wonder—by what right—“
“I speak? By the right of my fondness for you.”
“And for Claire, yes,” said Madame Vicaud, thoughtfully.
Damier had not at all intended to imply this amendment, especially at a moment when he was so sure of not being at all fond of Claire; yet the trust of her inclusion was so unconscious of possible contradiction that he could not trouble it.
“But what will you say?” she went on. “Any reproach should come from me; and what reproach could you make? I cannot think he is more than piteous; people fall in love with Claire—often.”
Damier was feeling that if, by chance, Monsieur Daunay were more than piteous, he must stand between Madame Vicaud and the discovery.