"Bernard—my dear lad—why all this talk of pardon, and duty, and delinquencies, and God knows what else? If you believe that I consider you guilty of any carelessness, you must think me ungrateful indeed."
His voice, his look, his gesture, all convinced Kingswell that the words were sincere, and so did something toward the mending of his injured feelings. To the baronet, his eyes brightened and his manner unbent. He took his departure immediately after.
Sir Ralph turned to his daughter as the door closed behind Kingswell.
"I do not understand your treatment of him," he said. "Surely you realize that he is a friend—and friends are not so common that we can afford to flout them at every turn." He did not speak angrily, but the girl saw plainly enough that he was seriously displeased.
"The boy is so insufferably self-satisfied," she explained, weakly. "How indignation would have burned within him had some one else allowed the prisoners to escape."
The baronet gazed at her pensively for several seconds, and then took her hand tenderly between his own.
"You do the brave lad an injustice, my sweeting," he said. "What you take for conceit is just youth, and strength, and fearlessness, and a clean conscience. He has nothing of the braggart in him—not a hint of it. I am sorry you like him so little, my daughter, for he is a good lad and well-disposed toward us."