“Very well. It is he who has been writing those scurrilous articles that we have talked about so much.”
“How disgraceful!” exclaimed Sybil. “How perfectly detestable! Are you quite sure?”
“There is not the least doubt about it. John Harrington told me himself.”
“Oh, then of course it is true,” said Sybil. “How dreadful!”
“Harrington takes it in the calmest way, as though he had expected it all his life. He says they were never friends, and that Vancouver has a perfect right to his political opinions. I never saw anybody so cool in my life.”
“What a splendid fellow he is!” exclaimed Sybil. “There is something lion-like about him. He would forgive an enemy a thousand times a day, and say the man who injured him had a perfect right to his opinions.”
“Why gracious goodness, Sybil, how you talk!” cried Mrs. Wyndham; “you are not in love with the man yourself, are you, my dear?”
“I?” asked Sybil. Then she laughed. “No, indeed! I would not marry him if he asked me.”
“Why not?”
“Oh, I would never marry a celebrity like that. He is splendid, and noble, and honest; but everything in him is devoted to his career. There is no room for a woman at all.”