When he rejoined his companions he kissed Rosamund’s hand, and Renée, despite a confused feeling of humiliation and anger, loved him for it.
Glittering Venice was now in sight; the dome of Sta. Maria Salute shining like a globe of salt.
Roland flung his arm round his friend’s neck, and said, “Forgive me.”
“You do what you think right,” said Beauchamp.
“You are a perfect man of honour, my friend, and a woman would adore you. Girls are straws. It’s part of Renée’s religion to obey her father. That’s why I was astonished!... I owe you my life, and I would willingly give you my sister in part payment, if I had the giving of her; most willingly. The case is, that she’s a child, and you?”
“Yes, I’m dependent,” Beauchamp assented. “I can’t act; I see it. That scheme wants two to carry it out: she has no courage. I feel that I could carry the day with my uncle, but I can’t subject her to the risks, since she dreads them; I see it. Yes, I see that! I should have done well, I believe; I should have saved her.”
“Run to England, get your uncle’s consent, and then try.”
“No; I shall go to her father.”
“My dear Nevil, and supposing you have Renée to back you—supposing it, I say—won’t you be falling on exactly the same bayonet-point?”
“If I leave her!” Beauchamp interjected. He perceived the quality of Renée’s unformed character which he could not express.