"Oh!" she exclaimed, "could he—could any one—think such a thing possible?"
"Such things are being done every day, Ideala, and a man of the world would naturally be on his guard against deception. If he thought he was being deceived, do you think it likely he would feel bound to be scrupulous?"
"But he did believe in me," she declared, passionately.
"He pretended to; it was part of the play. You see he only kept it up until he thoroughly understood you, and then his real feelings appeared, and he was rude to you. For I call his absence on that occasion distinctly rude, and intentionally so too, since he sent no apology."
"He was only rude to me to save me from myself, then, as Lancelot was rude to Elaine," she answered.
"Or is it not just possible that he was disappointed when he found you better than he had supposed? that he felt he had wasted his time for nothing, and was irritated——"
She interrupted me. "I forgive you," she said, "because you do not know him. But I shall never convince you. You are prejudiced. You do not think ill of me: why do you think ill of him?"
I made no answer, and she was silent for a little. Then she began again, recurring to the point at issue:
"If he did slight me on that occasion," she said—"and I maintain that he did not—but if he did, it was accidentally done."
"The evidence is against him," I answered, drily.