“But, it is so terrible to be a–prisoner. That means that one can never go out into the fields or climb the mountains, or ride, or hunt, or anything one likes. He has done dreadful wrongs, and I never used to like him as well as I ought, but now I’m sorry for him. I can’t help it, Ephraim, even if it does displease you.”
“H-m-m. He brought his own misfortunes upon himself. But first he had brought worse ones on his truest friends and innocent persons whom he never saw.”
“Maybe he didn’t know any better. Maybe––”
“Child, you are incorrigible. You’d pity–anybody. Yet, perhaps, you are right in a measure. Antonio strikes me as more fool that knave.”
“Well, I’ll be glad to say good-by to him, anyway.”
It was a greatly altered Antonio they found. All his haughtiness was gone and his depression, his fear, was so abject that while Lady Jess pitied him even more than before, the reporter felt only contempt. It was he who cut short the manager’s wordy explanations and commanded:
“Now, if you’ve got anything special to say to Miss Trent, out with it and have done. We must be off.”
“Then leave her alone with me for five minutes, yes.”
“No. What you can say to her must be said in my presence.”
But Jessica petitioned for the favor, and Ninian stepped into an adjoining room, leaving the door ajar.