"There was something—something Monsieur de Bienville invented."
"Wasn't it a pity for him to go to the trouble of invention—?"
"When he could have found so much that was true," Diane finished, with dangerous quietness. "That's what you were going to say, isn't it?"
"You have no right to ascribe words to me that I haven't uttered. I never said so."
"No; that's true; I prefer to say it for you. It's safer, in that it leaves me nothing to resent."
"Oh, what shall I do! What shall I do!" Mrs. Eveleth moaned, wringing her hands. "My boy is gone from me. He will never come back. I've always been sure that if he ever did this, it would be the end. It's my fault for having brought him up among your foolish, hot-headed people. He will have thrown his life away—and for nothing!"
"No; not that," Diane corrected; "not even if the worst comes to the worst."
"What do you mean? If the worst comes to the worst, he will have sacrificed himself—"
"For my honor; and George himself would be the first to tell you that it's worth dying for."
Diane rose as she spoke, Mrs. Eveleth following her example. For a brief instant they stood as if measuring each other's strength, till they started with a simultaneous shock at the sharp call of the telephone from an adjoining room. With a smothered cry Diane sprang to answer it, while Mrs. Eveleth, helpless with dread, remained standing, as though frozen to the spot.