Edna laughed musically—that is to say, Sir Julian felt convinced that she herself so designated the low, controlled sound of amusement that she so seldom enough judged it à propos to emit.
But her voice was very serious the next instant, and had even dropped a semitone, as she made enquiry:
"Julian, can you tell me yet whether she is really connected with poor Clarence's tragedy?"
"No, certainly not—I haven't tried to find out."
"I wonder why, when you knew that the whole question touched me very nearly. Nothing has much sacredness to you, Julian, has it?"
"I see nothing sacred in the amorous extravagances of your cousin Clarence, certainly."
"And you care very little whether the woman who is charged with the welfare of all those young men and women—sharers, after all, of our common humanity—can give them true, pure-hearted love and service and fellowship," mused Edna. "And yet to me those ideals which you dismiss so lightly seem the most important things in all the world. You see, Julian, love seems to me to matter more than anything in the whole world."
"In the case of a Lady Superintendent for the College, a knowledge of shorthand is more important," said Julian indifferently.
He had long since fallen into the habit of uttering the cheap jeers that had once inadequately served to protect him from blatant references that now had almost lost effect.
"God forbid that I should condemn anyone—who am I, to judge of another?—but I can't pretend to you, Julian, that it won't become a question of conscience with me, if I find that a position of such responsibility towards my boys and girls is held by a woman who could throw a man over heartlessly, break her given pledge, just at the moment when he was more in need of her than ever before."