"Colonel Ray has done what he believed to be his duty," I said slowly.
"It is hard that he should suffer for that."
"Often," she murmured, "one has to suffer for doing the right thing. My father has made himself a poor man because of his sense of what was right. I do not know what to do."
I glanced out of the window. For many reasons I did not wish to prolong this interview.
"He is waiting," I reminded her.
"I must do one of two things," she murmured. "I must break my faith with my father—or with him."
Then she lifted her eyes to mine.
"Tell me what you think, Mr. Ducaine?" she asked.
I opened my lips to speak, but I could not. Was it fair that she should ask me? My little room was peopled with dreams of her, with delightful but impossible visions. My very nerves were full of the joy of her presence. It was madness to ask for my judgment, when the very poetry of my life was an unreasoning and hopeless love for her.
"I cannot!" I muttered. "You must not ask me."
She seemed surprised. After all, I had guarded my secret well, then?