“Why, Johnny?”
“Because—because, Gipsy, I am a fool—a jealous fool, I suppose.”
“If you doubt her honour and her honesty, Johnny, then you are a fool,” she said bravely, “because Joan could not be mean and treacherous and underhand. It would not be possible for her.”
“I thought you did not—like Joan?”
“And does that make any difference? Even if I do not like her, must I be unjust to her? I know she is fine and honourable and true and straight, and you must know that too, so—so why should you worry, Johnny? Why should you worry?”
“Why has she never said one word to me about this man? Why did she refuse to recognise him that day when she saw you and him together? Why does she go to Mrs. Bonner’s cottage to meet him late at night?”
He hurled at her all those questions that he had been asking himself vainly.
“I do not know why,” Ellice said gravely, “but I know that, whatever the reason is, it is honourable and honest. Joan Meredyth,” she paused a little, with a catch of the breath, “Joan Meredyth could not be other than honest and true and—and straight, Johnny. It would not be her nature to be anything else.”
“Why do you come here? Why do you come to tell me this, Gipsy?” He had risen, he stood looking at her—such a little thing, so graceful, so lovely with the colour in her cheeks, the light in her eyes, the light of her fine generosity. “Gipsy—” He became silent; looking at her, strange thoughts came—wild, impossible thoughts, thoughts that come when dreams end and one is face to face with reality. So many years he had known her, she had been part and parcel of his life, his everyday companion, yet it seemed to him that he had never known her till now—the fineness, the goodness of her, the beauty of her too, the womanliness of this child.
“I came here to tell you, Johnny, because you let yourself doubt,” she said. “I heard you moving about the room restlessly, and that is not like you. Usually you sit here and smoke your pipe and think or read your paper. You never rise and move about the room as to-night.”