"Never intentionally. I have watched you; I have studied you, since we have been here together."
"And what have you seen?"
Clodagh had remembered the card-room and Serracauld—the rose garden and Deerehurst—with a quick, faint sense of fear.
But Gore had taken her hand and, with quiet courtesy, had raised it to his lips.
"I have seen—or believe I have seen—that though you may like these people, may be amused by them, may even court them, not one of them is more to you now than they were in Venice. That is what I believe. Am I right?"
And Clodagh—in sudden relief, in sudden gratitude for his faith—had caught his hand passionately between her own, and looked up confidently into his face.
"You are right!" she had cried. "Oh, you are right! They are nothing to me! Nothing!—nothing!"
And Gore, moved by her vehemence, had leant forward and looked deeply into the eyes that challenged his.
"Not one of them is anything to you—in any way?"
"Not one of them is anything to me—in any way."