"I know that you think so," was the animated reply. "But I remember the case; I have my own opinion."
"They are unjust," repeated Sir James, with emphasis. "Then it is really the horror of the thing itself--not so much its possible effect on social position and opinion, which decides you?"
"I ask myself--I must ask myself," said his companion, with equal emphasis, forcing the words: "can I help Oliver to marry the daughter--of a convicted murderess--and adulteress?"
"No!" said Sir James, holding up his hand again--"No!"
Lady Lucy fell back in her chair. Her unwonted color had disappeared, and the old hand lying in her lap--a hand thin to emaciation--shook a little.
"Is not this too painful for us both, Sir James?--can we continue it? I have my duty to think of; and yet--I cannot, naturally, speak to you with entire frankness. Nor can I possibly regard your view as an impartial one. Forgive me. I should not have dreamed of referring to the matter in any other circumstances."
"Certainly, I am not impartial," said Sir James, looking up. "You know that, of course, well enough."
He spoke in a strong full voice. Lady Lucy encountered a singular vivacity in the gray eyes, as though the whole power of the man's personality backed the words.
"Believe me," she said, with dignity, and not without kindness, "it is not I who would revive such memories."
Sir James nodded quietly.