"Geoffrey Benteen," she asked soberly, never glancing toward me, "is it true you do not desire my return to New Orleans?"
"It is true."
"Would you honestly tell me why?" and she turned her eyes, looking searchingly into mine.
"I have mentioned sufficient reasons," I ventured, resolutely facing her, determined to speak frankly and abide the result. "All I need add is, to my judgment it will prove better for you to remain with your husband."
She glanced aside at him where he lay, the quick blood flushing her clear cheek.
"You do not like him?" the question fell faltering from her lips.
"That I am not prepared to declare. He is changeable, somewhat overbearing in speech, not as sober of mind as I am accustomed to find men, yet it is not true I dislike him. I merely believe that he will do better, be truer to his manhood, with you near him, than with you absent."
"He is French," she explained gently, "by nature of birth different from your race. Besides, he has led a life filled with the dissipation of the town."
"True! for that reason I forbear judging his words and actions by any standard of my own people. Yet this I cannot be blind to, Madame; he is of quick temper, hasty in action, easily influenced by others, and might become careless at times, and under strong temptation, unless some moral firmness hold him in check. You alone possess the power to become his good angel."
She bowed her head, her gaze again far off upon the river, the deepening surge of color rising upon either cheek.