“And her name was Eileen Fane,” murmured Barres. “She must have been beautiful, Dulcie.”
“She was——” A bright blush stained her face, but this time she looked steadily at Barres and neither of them smiled.
“She was in love with Murtagh Skeel,” said Dulcie. “I wonder why she did not marry him.”
“You say her family objected.”
“Yes, but what of that, if she loved him?”
“But even in those days he may have been a troublemaker and revolutionist——”
“Does that matter if a girl is in love?”
In Dulcie’s voice there was again that breathless tone through which something rang faintly—something curbed back, held in restraint.
“I suppose,” he said, smiling, “that if one is in love nothing else matters.”
“Nothing matters,” she said, half to herself. And he looked askance at her, and looked again with increasing curiosity.