“If they are guilty, yes.”
“There are things that cannot be told, Jennie, and reasons why I should not convict even the guilty. I hope you will not press this matter further. I have not taken my course without excellent reasons. If you knew all, you would counsel me to do as I have done. Let that suffice.”
Jennie was silent for a little, thinking. She clasped his hand with a warm pressure. His gladdened eyes were fixed eagerly upon her face.
“Let it be so,” she said, at length. “For the present, at least, we will forget it.”
The conversation changed. Seated upon the floor at her feet, and looking lovingly up into her eyes, their talk grew of softer themes. Their voices fell, mellowed by love. Hours, it seemed to them, they conversed in that sweet love gossip so hard to translate, so weak and meaningless when put into words.
Looks, tones, hand-pressures, form the soul of lovers’ talk, and these no pen can write down. The words spoken are dreadfully prosy to outsiders; all the poetry lies in the language of lips and eyes.
“Your friends have all visited you, then?” she at length asked.
“Not all. Nearly all,” he replied. “Their kindness has helped me greatly.”
“Could they do less, and be friends?” she quickly replied. “I do not think much of those who have failed to come.”
“I do not blame them. They might have been away, or unable to come. And my very equivocal position is a very good reason for their absence.”