She nodded brightly. "Better than I should have done, I suppose," she said, with a smile; "but then, I was sure of my friend—certain that no harm could come to me. How much have you to tell me of last night?"
"Nothing," I said, shaking my head. "There is nothing that you need be told, now that everything is ended. For the future you have to trust to me—just as you trusted last night. You said I was your friend; and I am going to look after you."
"That makes me very happy. By the way, what am I to call you?" she asked artlessly.
I felt the colour mounting in my cheeks. "You know my name," I said.
"Yes—John," she replied, and we both laughed.
Now this is, of course, all very shameful, and I had no right to be standing there, holding her hands, and letting her talk to me in that fashion; but I did not remember then what I was, or from what I had come. Indeed, it is more than possible that if I had remembered I should scarcely have changed my attitude, for but little joy had ever come into my life. I merely set this down here, in order to record the fact that, save for one lamentable lapse, we were "John" and "Debora" to each other from that day forward.
But I had some instructions to give her for her own safety. She listened attentively while I gave them.
"You had better not refer to last night at all," I said. "Let the doctor imagine that you have forgotten about it, or at least have believed that it was some ugly dream. Meet him as usual—show him, if anything, a little more kindness than you have done."
"I can't do that," she said hastily.
"You must; it is imperative," I urged. "I can tell you this, at least: I have his promise that he will not molest you again, and that he will be for the future simply your guardian, and nothing else."