Emily smiled serenely, but under the serene smile her wild grief raged.
“How could you think so, Muriel?” she lightly asked.
“I judged so from his manner toward you, and yours toward him,” replied Muriel.
Emily laughed gaily.
“I cannot imagine,” she answered, “how you could think his attentions meant anything more than the ordinary reckless gallantries it is his nature to lavish on young women. And as for myself, I should indeed be weak to love such a person as he.”
She said it with the most bland and tranquil indifference of voice and manner—grief and scorn and the wild resentment of slighted love all hidden and raging in her heart.
“Emily!” The silver voice was raised in mild reproach, and she felt the nervous hands suddenly clasp her arm. “How can you speak so of Richard! Indeed, you do him great injustice. I know him better than to think that of him. Emily, you amaze me! Why, how can you imagine him such a person!”
Emily smiled blandly. She may well defend him, was her thought, for she loves him. Calmly lifting her lustrous eyes, she saw Muriel’s wondering face all suffused with generous color. Yes, she thought, it is her love for him.
“Why Muriel,” she remarked quietly, “everybody knows he is a handsome young flirt. It is his general reputation. His words, his looks, his manner toward women are proof enough of it, I’m sure. Nobody thinks more highly of him than Fernando, but even Fernando, spite of his friendship, says it is the great fault of his character.”
Muriel laughed suddenly, then looked very grave.