She clasped her hands, looking for the first time breathlessly into his face.
“I know now. It’s him there—upstairs.”
“Yes,” he said: “It’s him.”
“Why doesn’t he go and claim her, then? She’s better worth the winning than she was.”
“Soberly, my girl! It’s early yet to rake over the weeds. Besides, there are broken faiths to mend. He took his jilting hardly. An angel himself, she’d been his goddess. He’s down in the mud at present. These sanctities are always for extremes. There’s no middle course for them. The devil’s the gentleman for moderation; that’s why he’s so convincing. We must nurse up this friend of mine between us—restore him to reason. She’s better worth his winning, says you. No doubt: but, by the token, miles further removed from a poor suitor.”
“That’s nothing, if they love.”
She spoke it impulsively; and stopped.
“Poor!” she whispered suddenly. “What’s his ruin to that she’s brought upon my sweetheart! So the old man’s gone and left you nothing.”
“No fault of hers, child. Don’t breathe or think it. Yes, he had to put his house in order; settle old scores before he asked new grace. He parted with me the day before his death. He’d already sent Bonito packing—you know him, the old hungry dog. He got his master’s curse for wages: I, at least, got a handful of jewels. Why should I love his memory? Yet, though he died justly, it was not good that anyone should kill my father.”
Even then, she hardly seemed to listen. But she saw her lover moved beyond her knowledge of him, and put her arms about his neck, and entreated him passionately:—