He pointed, as he spoke, to a small marble-columned seat in the shrubbery, buried under a great hood of climbing rose-vines in full bloom. For an instant only the girl hesitated. Then she led the way resolutely, gathering her light shawl more closely about her shoulders, with something like a shiver, despite the warmth of the still June evening. For a little they sat in silence. When Andrew spoke, it was with an abruptness which told of embarrassment.
"You remember, perhaps, what you said to me the other day in Paris—about fighting a good fight, and keeping the faith? Will you tell me just what you meant by that? It's been haunting me, lately. When you said that the influence of Paris made you afraid for those—for those for whom you might care, did you mean—me?"
He laid his hand on hers, as he asked the question, but she drew away slightly, and he straightened himself again, with a little puzzled frown.
"Please don't ask me to answer that," she said, after a moment. "Whatever I meant, it can make no difference now."
"No difference, Margery? Do you want me to understand that you were not in earnest—that you really didn't care?"
"I haven't said that," answered the girl wearily. "I said it could make no difference now, now that the mischief's done."
"I'm afraid I don't understand you," said Andrew slowly.
"Oh, pray don't let's discuss it. I've no right to question you."
"No right?"