Dorothy meant to go straight on to the end she had in view, but her courage failed, and she had to bridge the gap with a commonplace. “Isn’t it dreadful!” she said.
“That depends upon how you look at it,” rejoined Antrim, forgetting for the moment to whom he was talking. “I don’t believe Brant is guilty.”
“O Harry!” Dorothy stopped, and the quick tears blinded her.
Whereupon Antrim realized, with a pang of remorse for his thoughtlessness, what such an assertion must mean to William Langford’s sister, and he made haste to comfort her.
“You mustn’t take it for granted that I am accusing Will. I am not; I just leave him out of the question altogether, and stick to Brant for what I know of him. He wouldn’t do such a thing any more than I would.”
Dorothy could not so easily avoid the apparently inevitable conclusion, but her enthusiasm rose unbidden at the tribute to the worth of the man whom she loved.
“I want to think so too, Harry—oh, so much! But papa says he doesn’t deny it.”
“No, he doesn’t; and he doesn’t affirm it, either. And till he does, I am not going to believe it,” said Antrim stoutly.
At this conjuncture it occurred to Dorothy that Antrim was behaving very nobly toward his successful rival, and she found space to lay a little offering on the altar of manly friendship.
“It is very generous of you, Harry, to feel that way after what has happened. I have been afraid you might feel just the least bit vindictive.”