A sneer curled Mrs. Crosbie’s lip.
“He evidently thought union was strength,” she remarked, dryly.
“Aunt Constance, I will not hear your anger against Stuart,” Vane said, quickly. “I—I am his friend, and——” Her head drooped and her cheeks flushed. Then she went on, hurriedly: “It is not his fault—of that I am sure; you must blame Margery Daw, if you blame any one.”
“Does he expect me to receive her?” asked Mrs. Crosbie, quietly.
“I think so. But listen to me, Aunt Constance. I have not crossed Stuart, I have not refused his request, for I feared, in his weak state, to vex him; but he has left everything in my hands, and I will——” She stopped, and their eyes met.
“What?” asked Mrs. Crosbie, almost sharply.
“Save him from this if I can.”
The words were uttered very quietly, and Mrs. Crosbie drew a quick breath of relief.
“Vane,” she said, “forgive me; I was wrong to doubt you, even for a moment.”
“I know what it is,” Vane went on, hurriedly—“a glamour, a romance. Stuart has been here alone—he has been bewitched. But I know, too, what a bitter awakening it would be when the glamour was gone, the veil of poetry and romance torn down; and, for his sake, I will do it. Aunt Constance, do not think me bold—do not think me unwomanly. I cannot help myself; I would do anything for Stuart—for—for I—love him!”