"Go on; you thought she—"
"Well, then," recklessly, "I thought she was in love with you; I was sure of it."
"Dulce," sharply, "you forget yourself. What are you saying? Do you think your cousin would like you to speak like this?"
"I don't care what she likes," cries the rebel, angrily; "as I am speaking like this, I hope she wouldn't. When I think how good you have always been to her, how you gave her your friendship—your—" her voice fails her, and in a whisper, she adds, "your love."
"Do not let us discuss this subject any more," says Fabian; though he speaks quickly one can hear the keen anguish in his tone. "Why could I not give her my friendship? Is it her fault that she cannot believe?"
"You would defend her!"
"I would be just. Is she the only one who feels distrust, who only half credits my version of the miserable story? Here, in this very house, are there none who hesitate between faith and unfaith? You have faith in me, and Roger had."
"Oh, yes, yes, yes!" cries she, suddenly. "He had faith in you, he loved you." Without a word of warning she breaks again into a very tempest of tears, and sobs bitterly.
"I would you could have loved him," says Fabian, in a low tone, but she will not listen.
"Go on," she says, vehemently, "you were saying something about the people in this house."