She was twenty-four years old, this grey-eyed, honest, straightforward girl of his; and yet Senator Burton, much as he loved her, knew very little as to her knowledge of life. Did Daisy know anything of the ugly side of human nature? Did she know, for instance, that there are men and women, especially women, who spend their lives preying on the honest, the chivalrous, and the kind?
"The mystery is sure to be cleared up very soon," he said aloud. "If what our new friend says is true there must be as many people in England who know her to be what she says she is, as there are people in Paris who evidently know all about the artist, John Dampier."
"Yes, that's true. But father?"
"Yes, my dear."
"I am quite sure Mrs. Dampier is telling the truth."
Somehow the fact that Daisy was anxious to say that she disagreed with him stung the Senator.
"Then what do you think of the Poulains?" he asked quietly—"the Poulains, whom you have known, my dear, ever since you were fifteen—on whose honesty and probity I personally would stake a good deal. What do you think about them?"
Daisy began to look very troubled. "I don't know what to think," she faltered. "The truth is, father, I haven't thought very much of the Poulains in the matter. You see, Madame Poulain has not spoken to me about it at all. But you see that Gerald believes them to be lying."
"Gerald," said the Senator rather sharply, "is still only a boy in many things, Daisy. And boys are apt, as you and I know, to take sides, to feel very positive about things. But you and I, my darling—well, we must try to be judicial—we must try to keep our heads, eh?"
"Yes, father, yes—we must, indeed"; but even as she said the words she did not quite know what her father meant by "judicial."