'I can't help it. I am made like that. When a man begins to criticise my work, I first hate him—then I'm all of his opinion—only more so.'
'I know,' said Eleanor impatiently. 'It's this dreadful modern humility—the abominable power we all have of seeing the other side. But an author is no good till he has thrown his critics out of window.'
'Poor Neal!' said Manisty, with his broad sudden smile, 'he would fall hard. However, to return to Miss Foster. There's no need to drive her away if we look after her. You'll help us, won't you, Eleanor?'
He sat down on a stone bench beside her. The momentary cloud had cleared away. He was his most charming, most handsome self. A shiver ran through Eleanor. Her thought flew to yesterday—compared the kind radiance of the face beside her, its look of brotherly confidence and appeal, with the look of yesterday, the hard evasiveness with which he had met all her poor woman's attempts to renew the old intimacy, reknit the old bond. She thought of the solitary, sleepless misery of the night she had just passed through. And here they were, sitting in cousinly talk, as though nothing else were between them but this polite anxiety for Miss Foster's peace of mind! What was behind that apparently frank brow—those sparkling grey-blue eyes? Manisty could always be a mystery when he chose, even to those who knew him best.
She drew a long inward breath, feeling the old inexorable compulsion that lies upon the decent woman, who can only play the game as the man chooses to set it.
'I don't know what I can do—' she said slowly. 'You think Alice is no better?'
Manisty shook his head. He looked at her sharply and doubtfully, as though measuring her—and then said, lowering his voice:
'I believe—I know I can trust you with this—I have some reason to suppose that there was an attempt at suicide at Venice. Her maid prevented it, and gave me the hint. I am in communication with the maid—though Alice has no idea of it.
'Ought she to come here at all?' said Eleanor after a pause.
'I have thought of that—of meeting all the trains and turning her back. But you know her obstinacy. As long as she is in Rome and we here, we can't protect ourselves and the villa. There are a thousand ways of invading us. Better let her come—find out what she wants—pacify her if possible—and send her away. I am not afraid for ourselves, you included, Eleanor! She would do us no harm. A short annoyance—and it would be over. But Miss Foster is the weak point.'