"Impossible!"
"True and not true. She has stolen my amphora. She confessed it when we were without witnesses."
"Now here's a matter indeed! Can you be sure that she is not deceiving you?"
"She has it. It is her very life."
"Then we'll be innocent murderers and deprive her of life at the first opportunity. Nothing shall become her life like the leaving of it."
Malherb turned and addressed Peter out of Grace's hearing Indeed, the girl's heart beat fast at this conversation, and she was busy with many private thoughts.
"You speak unselfishly, for the jewel will be my son's—that is, Grace's son's. It must remain under a Malherb's roof for ever, not under yours, Peter."
"Most just. The amphora is an heirloom."
Norcot glanced at Grace and marked her profound indifference. A wave of real indignation made his forehead hot and much astonished him. It was a revelation of himself. Then his mind chanced to roam towards Prince Town; he thought upon Cecil Stark and speculated whether the American could be of any service. While he thought clear prose he continued to utter epigrams for Grace's amusement.
"'The wanton snowflakes to her breast
Flew down, like birds into their nest,
And, vanquished by the whiteness there,
For grief they thawed into a tear.'"