He nodded and for a while made some pretence of eating, but presently leaned back and looked at his sister out of dazed eyes.
"Do you suppose," he said heavily, "that she was not entirely responsible when—when she went away?"
"I have wondered," said Nina simply. "Austin believes it."
"But—but—how in God's name could that be possible? She was so brilliant—so witty, so charmingly and capriciously normal—"
"Her father was brilliant and popular—when he was young. Austin knew him, Phil. I have often, often wondered whether Alixe realises what she is about. Her restless impulses, her intervals of curious resentment—so many things which I remember and which, now, I cannot believe were entirely normal. . . . It is a dreadful surmise to make about anybody so youthful, so pretty, so lovable—and yet, it is the kindest way to account for her strange treatment of you—"
"I can't believe it," he said, staring at vacancy. "I refuse to." And, thinking of her last frightened and excited letter imploring an interview with him and giving the startling reason: "What a scoundrel that fellow Ruthven is," he said with a shudder.
"Why, what has he—"
"Nothing. I can't discuss it, Nina—"
"Please tell me, Phil!"
"There is nothing to tell."