“No; do not!”
But the boat was flying fast from Venice, and she could have fallen at his feet and kissed them for not countermanding it.
“You are in my charge, my sister.”
“Yes.”
“And now, Nevil, between us two,” said Roland.
Beauchamp required no challenge. He seemed, to Rosamund Culling, twice older than he was, strangely adept, yet more strangely wise of worldly matters, and eloquent too. But it was the eloquence of frenzy, madness, in Roland’s ear. The arrogation of a terrible foresight that harped on present and future to persuade him of the righteousness of this headlong proceeding advocated by his friend, vexed his natural equanimity. The argument was out of the domain of logic. He could hardly sit to listen, and tore at his moustache at each end. Nevertheless his sister listened. The mad Englishman accomplished the miracle of making her listen, and appear to consent.
Roland laughed scornfully. “Why Trieste? I ask you, why Trieste? You can’t have a Catholic priest at your bidding, without her father’s sanction.”
“We leave Renée at Trieste, under the care of madame,” said Beauchamp, “and we return to Venice, and I go to your father. This method protects Renée from annoyance.”
“It strikes me that if she arrives at any determination she must take the consequences.”
“She does. She is brave enough for that. But she is a girl; she has to fight the battle of her life in a day, and I am her lover, and she leaves it to me.”