Don's face was very grave. "You have been studying strange books, Flamby. What have you been reading?"
"Heaps of things." Flamby blushed. "I managed to get a Reader's ticket for the British Museum. I am interested, you see. But there are things in Paul's book and other things promised in the next which—oh!—I'm afraid I can't explain——"
"You cannot account for such knowledge in an ordinary mortal, and evidently something has occurred which has led you to regard Paul as less than a god. Tell me about it, Flamby."
III
Don stood up, and walking across the room looked out of the window into the quadrangle. The story of the Charleswood photographs, which Flamby had related with many a pause and hesitance, had seemed to cast upon the room a shadow—the shadow of a wicked hypocrite. Both were silent for several minutes.
"And you are sure that Paul has seen these photographs?" said Don.
"You must have noticed the change in him yourself."
"I had noticed it, Flamby. I am afraid you are right. I will go down to Devonshire to-night and——"
"You will not!"
Don turned, and Flamby, her face evenly dusky and her eyes very bright, was standing up watching him. "Please don't be angry," she said approaching him, "because I spoke like that. But I could never forgive you if you told him. If he can think such a thing of me I don't care. What have I ever said or done that he should dare to think such a thing!"