"Voilà!" said Roland, suddenly calmed. He paused a second, and after eying the polish of his finger-nails, affected to flick a speck of dust from his sleeve. "Your cousin is mad," he added.
"He is sane as—" and Justine hesitated for a simile.
"His mother, you mean. Were you never aware that insanity is hereditary? If his sister—presupposing that the accusation which he formulates against me was originally advanced by her—if his sister—whom, by the way, I never saw but once—if his sister accused me of complicity, then she suffered from the hereditary taint as well. If I was guilty of what your cousin charges, why was I not arrested, tried, and sentenced? But are you such a dolt you cannot see that Guy is mad—mad not only by nature, but crazed by jealousy as well. You say you know he loves you. You have even the candor to admit that you love him! Now ask yourself what would any impartial hearer deduce from statements such as yours?"
"My father was an impartial hearer, and he—"
"But how is it possible to be so blind? Can you not see that your cousin has prejudiced him against me? I said, impartial hearer. But let the matter drop. I tell you the charge is false; believe it or not, as you prefer. There is, however, just this in the matter: if the charge is made again, I will have your cousin under arrest. You forget that there is such a thing as libel still."
Again he paused, and strove to collect himself; there was a design in the carpet which appeared to interest him very much, but presently he looked up again.
"Now tell me," he said, "what did your father say?"
"Nothing, save what he said before."
"Nothing?"
"Nothing that you would care to hear." Her eyes roamed from the neighbourly ceiling over to him and back again. "He said," she added, "that if I persisted in living with you his money would go to my child, if I had one; if I had none, then to Guy."