“That is not fair,” she murmured, “you know how—how he considers me,—as he considers every woman. You know how different he is from you and the rest. I have never seen a man,—such a man as Monsieur Hastings.”
He let his cigarette go out unnoticed.
“I am almost afraid of him—afraid he should know—what we all are in the Quarter. Oh, I do not wish him to know! I do not wish him to—to turn from me—to cease from speaking to me as he does! You—you and the rest cannot know what it has been to me. I could not believe him,—I could not believe he was so good and—and noble. I do not wish him to know—so soon. He will find out—sooner or later, he will find out for himself, and then he will turn away from me. Why!” she cried passionately, “why should he turn from me and not from you?”
Clifford, much embarrassed, eyed his cigarette.
The girl rose, very white. “He is your friend—you have a right to warn him.”
“He is my friend,” he said at length.
They looked at each other in silence.
Then she cried, “by all that I hold to me most sacred, you need not warn him!”
“I shall trust your word,” he said pleasantly.
