"It is all very sad," says Portia. Her eyes are bent, and she is slowly turning a ring round and round upon her finger.
"It has ruined Fabian's life, and broken his heart," says Dulce, in a low tone. "It is more than sad."
"But if innocent, why should it weigh so heavily upon him?" asks Portia, gently.
"If," says Dulce, quickly, the hot blood mounting to her cheeks. Then—very coldly—"There is no 'if' about it; he is innocent. However mysterious his unhappy story may sound in a strang— in your ears, nevertheless, our Fabian has nothing to do with disgrace. It could not touch him."
"I put it badly," says Portia, correcting her mistake with much grace. "I should have said as he is innocent. Forgive me."
"It was all a mistake," says Dulce, who is now very pale, "But we are so unaccustomed to even the faintest doubt of Fabian. Even Mark Gore, the sceptic, believes in him. How tired you look; would you like another cushion to your back?"
"No, thank you. I am quite comfortable and quite happy. Do you know," with a slow, lovely smile, "I rather mean that last conventional phrase: I am happy; I feel at rest. I know I shall feel no want here in this delicious old place—with you!" This is prettily toned, and Dulce smiles again. "I am so tired of town and its ways."
"You will miss your season, however," says Dulce, regretfully—for her.
"Yes, isn't that a comfort?" says her cousin, with a devout sigh of deepest thankfulness.
"A comfort!"