“It is not that, Stephen. I could forgive almost anything that you have done. But there is one thing that you have done, that try as I would, I could never forget. Stephen, let me ask it of you. What is the most essential quality of all in a—a—friend?”
“Honesty,” answered Loring, without a moment’s hesitation.
“And suppose you knew that a friend had utterly fallen from honesty?”
“I should then feel that the word “friend” no longer applied.”
Loring was dazed. He did not know of her cousin’s story of his dishonesty in his relations with his guardian. He thought only of the promise he had made to her on their ride in Quentin and the manner in which he had broken it. “Yes,” he went on slowly, “I suppose when a man breaks his solemn word he shatters forever the mold of his character.”
“I want you to understand that it is only because I cannot forget that one thing, that my trust in you is not absolute.”
Loring straightened himself, and for a second turned his head away. “That,” said he, “is why I said I had lost the chance.”
A wave of pity swept over Jean. “And yet, Stephen,” she whispered, “I—”
“Oh, Steve! Where are you?” came from out of the darkness. “We are going up now. Mr. Cameron thinks we have a fine strike there.”
Stephen helped Jean to her feet. Then silently he led the way back to the shaft.