"Yes, yes," said Barnabas, a little hurriedly, aware that her face was still hidden in her hands, though he kept his eyes studiously averted. Then all at once she was beside him, her hands were upon his arm, pleading, compelling; and thus she forced him to look at her, and, though her cheeks yet burned, her eyes met his, frank and unashamed.
"Sir," said she, "you do believe that I—that I found him out in time—that I—escaped his vileness—you must believe—you shall!" and her slender fingers tightened on his arm. "Oh, tell me—tell me, you believe!"
"Yes," said Barnabas, looking down into the troubled depths of her eyes; "yes, I do believe."
The compelling hands dropped from his arm, and she stood before him, staring out blindly into the glory of the morning; and Barnabas could not but see how the tears glistened under her lashes; also he noticed how her brown, shapely hands griped and wrung each other.
"Sir," said she suddenly; "you are a friend of—Viscount Devenham."
"I count myself so fortunate."
"And—therefore—a gentleman."
"Indeed, it is my earnest wish."
"Then you will promise me that, should you ever hear anything spoken to the dishonor of Beatrice Darville, you will deny it."
"Yes," said Barnabas, smiling a little grimly, "though I think I should do—more than that."