She drew a deep breath. “I’m afraid I understand your feeling toward a person who is everything to me, and to whom I owe a great loyalty. I love her very dearly.” She laid aside her knitting and clasped her hands tightly.

“I could never wish anybody to like me or have kind thoughts of me who had—had ugly thoughts of her. No, and I could not like anybody myself who had an ill feeling for her, or suspicions; who—asked ugly questions about her.”

“Ugly questions?” I said heavily, for I knew what she meant. “You heard me asking ugly questions?”

She nodded sadly in affirmation. I saw a glimmering beneath her downcast thick lashes. She turned away her head; and when she spoke I could just hear her voice. “If suspicion smirches her, it stains me too. That is how I would wish it. Do you think I would be less loyal to her than to wish it?”

I could only protest clumsily. “Suspicion? Ellen, I’d as soon have suspicion of my mother as of you. I admit I’ve had—some strange thoughts—I hope they’re wrong ones—maybe they are; but they’re never strange when they’re of you.”

“Ah,” she murmured, “they’re only strange when they’re about one I love!” She kept her face averted and sighed shiveringly.

When I caught at her hand, she turned reproachful eyes upon me.

“No,” she said, “I am able to use my mind, though perhaps you think women can’t. At the convent we were taught to think: you mightn’t believe it. We were taught the logic of Plato, the logic of Bacon; and I’ve learned to use my powers of reason a little. You have no kind feeling for Mademoiselle de Sabrevois; you must have none for me! You think she is wicked; so must you think me wicked! That is how I feel when I love people; I share whatever comes to them.”

“Ellen—–”

“No, no!” she said hurriedly. “You and I can’t be friends! You mustn’t like me—I don’t want you to!”

Upon that she went quickly into the tent, and let the flap of canvas fall behind her.

I could only stand there, feeling like a beggar-child who has forgotten his cold and his rags while he looks through a window at a brilliant Christmas tree, and then is shut out from that fairyland brightness by the closing of a curtain across the window.

XXV