"You're not a South American."
"No, my father was a Northerner, but, as you know, he owned large sugar plantations in your country, and if training and sympathy can make me a South American, I am one."
"You're a Protestant."
"Yes, so are you."
"It is my mother's faith, and though I was brought up in a convent at New Orleans, I've not forsaken it. I feel easier in speaking to you on that account."
"You may rest assured, my dear, that what you say to me will go no farther. 'Tis my business to keep secrets."
"Two years ago," she began abruptly, plunging into her story, "after our—after you left home, an Englishman, a soldier returning from the East incapacitated by a fever, and travelling for his health, craved a night's rest at my father's house. As you know, in a country like ours, where decent inns are few and far between, travellers are always welcome. It was the hot season, we pressed him to stay for a day or two, he accepted, and a return of the fever made him our guest for months. He needed constant nursing—I—I was the only white woman on the plantation."
"I see," said Stanley. "You nursed him, he recovered, was grateful, paid you homage."
"Remember I was brought up in a convent. I was so alone and so unhappy. He told me you had married. I believed him—trusted him.
"Quite so. His name was Darcy. He is a liar."