"Oh! no; she would only quietly walk over the person who was unlucky enough to get in her way," remarked Rathborne. "And it is not I who would blame her for that."
Helen looked at him reproachfully. "Now you are doing yourself injustice," she said. "I understand that you do not mean anything of the kind, but such remarks make others think badly of you."
"No doubt," he replied, carelessly; "but, my dear Helen, there is nothing in the world of less importance to me than what others—the class of others you mean—think of me."
"But it is of great importance to me," said Helen. "I cannot bear that you should be misjudged by any one."
He laughed—people were right who said of Rathborne that he had not a pleasant laugh—as he replied, "Who can say when one is misjudged? Don't trouble yourself about that. As long as you are satisfied with me, I can snap my fingers at the rest of the world."
"You know how well I am satisfied," said Helen.
"Yes, I know," he answered, with a short thrill of compunction. "I am not all you think me, Helen. The 'others,' whose opinion makes you indignant, are nearer right than you are, if the truth were known, I suspect."
"You shall not say such things!" cried Helen. "There is nothing I could want changed in you, except"—her face fell a little—"except your religion. If you were only a Catholic I should be perfectly happy."
Rathborne smiled a little, as one would at the folly of a child. "I a Catholic!" he said. "My imagination is not strong enough to fancy that. No, my dear little Helen; you must be content with me as I am."
"Have you read the book I gave you—which you promised to read?" asked Helen, wistfully.