"Of course you heard a good deal about it in town," she says, sadly. "He had many friends there at one time. Fair-weather friends! They, as a rule, are cruellest when evil comes; and they never remember. You heard him often discussed?"
This is a downright question to which Portia is constrained to give an answer.
"Yes; often," she says, sorely against her will.
"Aunt Maud would enlarge upon it, of course," says Dulce, bitterly. "She likes whisperings and slanderous tongues. And you, when first you heard it, what did you think?"
Portia shrinks from her. Must she answer this question, too?
"Think?" she says, evasively.
"Yes; what did you think of Fabian?"
"Very little," says Portia, who has grown quite white; "why should I think at all? I did not know him then. It was most natural, was it not? He was a stranger to me."
"A stranger, yes. But still your cousin—your own blood. I should have thought much, I think. It was natural, I daresay, but even then—you must recollect—did you believe in him? Did you guess the truth?"
"I don't think I quite understand," said Portia, faintly.