"He is—successful in that way," observed Rosalind coldly, looking down at a spray of flowers pinned to her breast.
"Too much so, Miss Marsh. Now, I felt confident that the warning given by Miss Prout would effectually quash any friendship between a lady of your pride and quality and Mr. Glyn—Osborne. But then, through your thick veil I noticed you at the inquest: and I said to myself, 'I am older than she is—I'll speak to her in the tone of an old and experienced man, if she will let me.'"
"You see, I let you. I even thank you. But then you notice that Mr. Osborne is just now vilified and friendless."
"Oh, there is his Miss Prout."
Rosalind's neck stiffened a little.
"That is indefinite," she said. "I know nothing of this lady, except that, as you tell me, she is ready to betray her employer to serve her own ends. Mr. Osborne is my friend: it is my duty to refuse to credit vague statements made against him. It is not possible—it cannot be——"
She stopped, rather in confusion. Furneaux believed he could guess what she meant to say.
"It is possible, believe me," he broke in earnestly. "Since it was possible, as you know, for him to turn his mind so easily from the dead, it is also possible——"
"Oh, the dead deceived him!" she protested with a lively flush. "The dead was unworthy of him. He never loved her."
"He deceived her," cried Furneaux also in an unaccountable heat—"he deceived her. No doubt she was as fully worthy of him as he of her—it was a pair of them. And he loved her as much as he can love anyone."