The colonel said absently: “No”; and, surprised at himself, added: “No, certainly not. How can we be parted? You won’t run away from me? No, you know too well I can’t resist you. I appeal to your judgement, and I must accept what you decide. But he is immoral. I repeat that. He has no roots. We shall discover it before it’s too late, I hope.”
Cecilia gazed away, breathing through tremulous dilating nostrils.
“One night after dinner at Steynham,” pursued the colonel, “Nevil was rattling against the Press, with Stukely Culbrett to prime him: and he said editors of papers were growing to be like priests, and as timid as priests, and arrogant: and for one thing, it was because they supposed themselves to be guardians of the national morality. I forget exactly what the matter was: but he sneered at priests and morality.”
A smile wove round Cecilia’s lips, and in her towering superiority to one who talked nonsense, she slipped out of maiden shame and said: “Attack Nevil for his political heresies and his wrath with the Press for not printing him. The rest concerns his honour, where he is quite safe, and all are who trust him.”
“If you find out you’re wrong?”
She shook her head.
“But if you find out you’re wrong about him,” her father reiterated piteously, “you won’t tear me to strips to have him in spite of it?”
“No, papa, not I. I will not.”
“Well, that’s something for me to hold fast to,” said Colonel Halkett, sighing.