“You are quite wrong.” Her tone was quiet, but decided. “He did it, first of all, because of what you did for his father—”
“I did nothing!” interposed Radowitz.
She took no notice.
“And secondly”—her voice shook a little—“because—he was sorry. Now—now—he is doing it”—suddenly her smile flashed out, with its touch of humour—“just simply because he likes it!”
It was a bold assertion. She knew it. But she straightened her slight shoulders, prepared to stick to it.
Radowitz shook his head.
“And what am I doing it for? Do you remember when I said to you I loathed him?”
“No—not him.”
“Well, something in him—the chief thing, it seemed to me then. I felt towards him really—as a man might feel towards his murderer—or the murderer of some one else, some innocent, helpless person who had given no offence. Hatred—loathing—abhorrence!—you couldn’t put it too strongly. Well then,”—he began poking at the fire, while he went on thinking aloud—“God brought us together in that strange manner. By the way”—he turned to her—“are you a Christian?”
“I—I don’t know. I suppose I am.”