“You don’t suppose I believe it, do you?” she said with the same almost hard composure.
This indeed was a new view of the situation. For six years the Colonel had heard the affair between young Barclay and Mrs. Newbury talked of and speculated upon. It had now passed to the stage of shelved acceptance. People no longer speculated. Their condemnation savored even of the indifference of familiarity. The only thing that nobody did was to doubt. And here was a girl, looking him in the face and calmly assuring him of her disbelief. Had he known more of women he would have realized how dangerous a portent it was.
“But—but—why don’t you believe it?” he asked, still in the stage of stammering surprise.
“Because I know Mr. Barclay,” she answered triumphantly, fixing him with a kindling eye.
“Well, that may be a reason,” said the Colonel, then stopped and drew himself to an upright position on the bench. He did not know what to say. Her belief in the man he knew to be guilty had in it a trustfulness of youth that was to him exceedingly pathetic.
“You can believe just what you like, dear,” he said after a moment’s pause, “it’s the privilege of your sex. But this time you’d better quit believing and be guided by me.”
“Why, Uncle Jim,” she said leaning eagerly toward him, “I’m not a fool or a child any more. Can’t I come to conclusions about people that may be right? I know Mr. Barclay well, not for as long as you have, but I shouldn’t be surprised if I knew him a great deal better. We saw him so often and so intimately up at Foleys, and he couldn’t be the kind of a man he is and be mixed up in such horrible scandals. It’s impossible. He’s a gentleman, he’s a man of honor.”
“Yes,” nodded the Colonel, looking at the shrubs in front of him, “that’s just what he’d say he was if you asked him.”
“And it would be right. He’s not capable of doing dishonorable things. He’s above it. Rosamund thinks so, too.”
“Oh, does she?” said the Colonel.