“I have known it for some time, although I was the last to see. You love him, and you are just beginning to realise that he is not worthy.”
“Mr Brood!”
“Your eyes have been opened.” She stared, speechless. “My poor girl, he was born to prove that honest love is the rarest thing in all this world.”
“Oh, I beg of you, Mr Brood, don't———”
“It is better that we should talk it over. We have ten minutes. No doubt he has told you that he loves you. He is a lovable boy, he is the kind one must love. But it is not in his power to love nobly. He loves lightly as”—he hesitated, and then went on harshly—“as his father before him loved.”
Anger dulled her understanding; she did not grasp the full meaning of his declaration. Her honest heart rose to the defence of Frederic.
“Mr Brood, I do care for Frederic,” she flamed, standing very erect before him. “He is not himself, he has not been himself since she came here. Oh, I am fully aware of what I am saying. He is not to be blamed for this thing that has happened to him. No one is to blame. It had to be. I can wait, Mr Brood. Frederic loves me. I know he does. He will come back to me. You have no right to say that he loves lightly, ignobly. You do not know him as I know him. You have never tried to know him, never wanted to know him. You—oh, I beg your pardon, Mr Brood. I—I am forgetting myself.”
“I am afraid you do not understand yourself, Lydia,” said he levelly. “You are young, you are trusting. Your lesson will cost you a great deal, my dear.”
“You are mistaken. I do understand myself,” she said gravely. “May I speak plainly, Mr Brood?”
“Certainly. I intend to speak plainly to you.”