"I was dreaming then; now I am awake!" Roger hung his head and poked the ground with his stick. Suddenly he looked up, and she saw that his eyes were filled with tears. "Dear lady," he said, "you have stirred deep waters! Don't question me. I am ridiculous with disappointment and sorrow!"
She gently laid her hand upon his arm. "Let me hear it all! I assure you I can't go away and leave you sitting here the same image of suicidal despair I found you."
Thus urged, Roger told his story. Her attention made him understand it better himself, and, as he talked, he worked off the superficial disorder of his grief. When he came to speak of this dismal contingency of Nora's love for her cousin, he threw himself frankly upon Miss Sand's pity, upon her wisdom. "Is such a thing possible?" he asked. "Do you believe it?"
She raised her eyebrows. "You must remember that I know neither Miss Lambert nor the gentleman you speak of. I can hardly risk a judgment; I can only say this, that the general effect of your story is to diminish my esteem for women,—to elevate my opinion of men."
"O, except Nora on one side, and Fenton on the other! Nora is an angel!"
Miss Sands gave a vexed smile. "Possibly! You are a man, and you ought to have loved a woman. Angels have a good conscience guaranteed them; they may do what they please. If I should except any one, it would be Mr. Hubert Lawrence. I met him the other evening."
"You think it is Hubert then?" Roger demanded mournfully.
