"Yes, she is a nice child. A little thoughtless and perhaps a little selfish. Young girls are that way, especially if they are pretty. I am fond of young people, all young things have an appeal for me. Kittens, puppies, chicks—I can watch them for hours."
This was Ronnie Morelle. She had to tell herself all the time. He was the man whom Ambrose Sault had described as "foul" and Ambrose was so charitable in his judgments; the man who had taken Beryl Merville.
"I am glad you spoke of Evie," he went on. "She must not be hurt. At her age men make a profound impression and color the whole of after-life. It is so easy to sour the young. It is hard to improve on the old texts," he smiled. "I wonder why I try. 'As the twig is bent, so is the tree inclined.' I never think that it is wise to reason with a girl in love—fascinated is a better word. Aegrescit mendeno! The disease thrives on remedies. I don't know where I picked up that phrase—it is Latin, isn't it?"
He went red again, was painfully embarrassed.
She fell back against the wall, white as death. Only by an effort of will did she arrest the scream that arose in her throat.
In his distress he was rubbing his chin with his knuckle!
"Oh, my God!" cried Christina, wide-eyed. Springing up she took both his hands and looked into his face.
"Don't you know!" she breathed.
A smile dawned slowly in the handsome face of Ronnie Morelle.
"I know it is very good to see you, Christina," he said.