"What would she want with 'an old, old man' like me?"
Maryska reasoned it out.
"You are not so old when you are with her. Besides, I am getting used to you. It is your looks which I don't like. You are not really so old, are you?"
"I'm not forty yet, my dear."
"And how old is Harry Lassett?"
It was a surprising question, and he turned sharply when he heard it.
"Don't you know that Harry Lassett is going to marry Gabrielle?"
She bit her lips and half sat up in bed again.
"I don't believe that. They say so, but it's wrong. You can't make any mistake in those things. He used to beat me when I asked him; he wouldn't let me talk about it, but I know. It's something which changes your life. It is not that awful thing I saw in the streets of Ranovica. God Almighty! none of those girls will ever have a lover now, will they, Mr. Faber?"
The child's eyes were staring into vacancy as though she saw a vision beyond all words terrifying. Here in this silent house remote from London's heart, the unnameable hours of war were lived again both by the man and the girl. John Faber's soul shivered at the hidden meaning of these words of woe. Had not his act carried Louis de Paleologue's daughter to the hills? Was he not responsible for what had been? And he was a servant of such a nation's instruments—a servant of war in its lesser aspect as in its greater. He did not dare to look the truth in the face. The judgment of God seemed to be here.