“One feels diffident about intruding on this great quietness,” he said. “Still, I fancy you had a purpose in asking me to drive you home.”
“Yes,” said the girl, with a curious gentleness. “In the first place, though I know it isn’t necessary with you, I want to thank you. I made Dane tell me, and you have done all I wished—splendidly.”
Witham laughed. “Well, you see, it naturally came easy to me.”
Maud Barrington noticed the trace of grimness in his voice. “Please try to overlook our unkindness,” she said. “Is it really needful to keep reminding me? And how was I to know what you were, when I had only heard that wicked story?”
Witham felt a little thrill run through him, for which reason he looked straight in front of him and shifted his grasp on the reins. Disdainful and imperious as she was at times, he knew there was a wealth of softer qualities in his companion now. Her daintiness in thought and person, and honesty of purpose, appealed to him, while that night her mere physical presence had an effect that was almost bewildering. For a moment he wondered vaguely how far a man with what fate had thrust upon him might dare to go, and then with a little shiver saw once more the barrier of deceit and imposture.
“You believe it was not a true one?” he asked.
“Of course,” said Maud Barrington. “How could it be? And you have been very patient under our suspicions. Now, if you still value the good-will you once asked for, it is yours absolutely.”
“But you may still hear unpleasant stories about me,” said Witham, with a note the girl had not heard before in his voice.
“I should not believe them,” she said.
“Still,” persisted Witham, “if the tales were true?”