She said to me, when her explanations had set my mind at ease:—
“Doctor Urquhart, I believe you are a man to be trusted. Dora trusts you. Dora once said, you would be just, even to your enemies.”
I answered, I hoped it was something more than justice, that we owed even to our enemies.
“That is not the question,” she said, sharply; “I spoke only of justice. I would not do an injustice to the meanest thing—the vilest wretch that crawls.”
“No.”
She went on:—
“I have not liked you, Dr. Urquhart: nor do I know if my feelings are altered now—but I respect you. Therefore, you are the only person of whom I can ask a favour. It is a secret. Will you keep it so?”
“Except from Theodora.”
“You are right. Have no secrets from Theodora. For her sake, and your own—for your whole life's peace—never, even in the lightest thing, deceive that poor child!” Her voice sharpened, her black eyes glittered a moment, and then she shrank back into her usual self. I see exactly the sort of woman, which, as you say, she will grow into—sister Penelope—aunt Penelope. Every one belonging to her must try, henceforth, to spare her every possible pang.
After a few moments, I begged her to say what I could do for her.