“Yes,” said Maud Barrington. “Still, you do not credit it?”
Barrington smiled a trifle dryly. “I should very much prefer not to, my dear, but what we saw the other night appears to give it probability. The man Courthorne was dismissing somewhat summarily is, I believe, to marry the lady in question. You will remember I asked you once before whether the leopard can change his spots.”
The girl laughed a little. “Still, are you not presuming when you take it for granted that there are spots to change?”
Colonel Barrington said nothing further, and it was late that night when the two women reopened the subject.
“Aunt,” said Maud Barrington, “I want to know what you think about Mrs. Carndall’s tale.”
The little lady shook her head. “I should like to disbelieve it if I could.”
“Then,” said Maud Barrington, “why don’t you?”
“Can you give me any reasons? One must not expect too much from human nature, my dear.”
The girl sat silent awhile, remembering the man whom she had at first sight, and in the moonlight, fancied was like her companion at the time. It was not, however, the faint resemblance that had impressed her, but a vague something in his manner—his grace, his half-veiled insolence, his poise in the saddle. She had only seen Lance Courthorne on a few occasions when she was very young, but she had seen others of his race, and the man reminded her of them. Still, she felt half-instinctively that as yet it would be better that nobody should know this, and she stooped over some lace on the table as she answered the elder lady.
“I only know one, and it is convincing. That Lance should have done what he is credited with doing is quite impossible.”