Clodagh's lips parted.
"But what——" she began impetuously; then she stopped.
Barnard continued to look at her.
"Isn't the inference of the smile somewhat obvious?"
Her glance fell.
"Oh!" she said—"oh! I suppose—I suppose I see."
"Precisely."
"But surely——" she began afresh; then again intuition interfered, though this time to a different end. It was not the moment—it was not the atmosphere—in which to parade one's sentiments! With the too ready facility of her nation for adapting itself to environment, she laughed suddenly and gaily at her own passing prudery, and raised a bright face to Barnard's.
"And when he meets these interesting young married women?" she asked amusedly.
"Ah, there he dubs himself 'Sir Galahad'! Some people call him a saint, for keeping his eyes on the ground; others call him a sinner, for not picking up what he sees there. In reality, he is neither sinner nor saint; but just that enviable creation—a man who is self-sufficing."