"Certainly. These are not the days of fairies and hobgoblins. He can't have been spirited away."
She gave a little sigh of relief.
"I hope he will be here soon. Oh, Michael, I am so happy now that he has learnt his lesson before it is too late, and will break with all those wicked friends."
A pause. Gabrielle, with a swift side-glance, suddenly coloured hotly.
"I—I meant Lord Denningham and Marcel Trouet," she faltered.
Michael sighed heavily.
"Yes," he muttered, "and—my father."
"Your father is different. He is not bad, only weak, like Morice."
"Weakness, such as his, is wickedness. See how it has marred his life and ruined his friends."
She laid her hand on his where it gripped the topmost bar of the wicket-gate.