"Defend myself?" repeated Paul. "Against what, Hermione?"
"When people say, 'Where is your brother?'—or mean to say it, as aunt Chrysophrasia did this evening,—you ought to answer; you ought not to turn pale and be silent."
"You too!" groaned the unhappy man, looking into her eyes. "You too, my darling! Ah, no! It is too much." He dropped her hands, and turned again, leaning on the chimney-piece.
"How can you think I believe it? Oh, Paul! how unkind!" exclaimed Hermione, clasping her hands upon his shoulder, and trying to look at his averted face. "I never, never believed it, dear. But no one else must believe it either; you must make them not believe it."
"My dearest," said Paul, almost sternly, but not unkindly, "this thing has pursued me for a long time. I thought it was dead. It has come between you and me on the very day of our happiness. You say you believe in me. I say you shall not believe in me without proof. Good-by, love,—good-by!"
He drew her to him and kissed her once; then he tried to go.
"Paul," she cried, holding him, "where are you going?" She was terrified by his manner.
"I am going away," he said slowly. "I will find my brother, or his body, and I will not come back until then."
"But you must not go! I cannot bear to let you go!" she cried, in agonized tones.
"You must," he answered, and the color left his cheeks. "You cannot marry a man who is suspected. Good-by, my beloved!"