"But for tenderness," she cried, "for mercy, for consideration of an old house, for Jacqueline whom your brother loved as you love—as once you said you loved—me! For just pity, Fair!"
"On the other side," he answered, "is justice. Don't urge me, Unity. That is something your uncle has not done."
"Uncle Edward?"
"Yes."
There was a silence; then, "I see now," said Unity slowly. "I haven't understood. I thought—I didn't know what to think. Uncle Edward, too,—oh me! oh me! That is why Deb is not to go to Roselands." She considered through blinding tears a little patch of sere grass. "But Jacqueline," she whispered,—"Jacqueline does not know?"
Cary looked at her. "Do you think that, Unity?"
Unity stared at the grass until the tears all dried. "She knows—she knows! That was a heart-breaking letter to Deb, and I couldn't—I couldn't understand it! She does not ask me there—does not seem to want to meet—I've hardly seen her since—since—And when we meet, she's strange—too gay at first for her, and then too still, with wide eyes she will not let me read. And she talks and talks—she talks now more than I do. She's not truly Jacqueline—she's acting a part. Oh, Jacqueline, Jacqueline!"
"Be very sure," he said, "that I have for her only pity, admiration, yes, and understanding!"
"But you intend—you intend—"
"To bring Lewis Rand to justice. Yes, I intend that."