nothing to do with it; of which I am very glad now, for reasons that you perfectly know—you're too honest a man to pretend you don't. Therefore, when I see you going again, I just inquire of you, as you inquired of her, what good does it do you?'
'I like it—I like it, my dear,' said Paul, with his fresh, unembarrassed smile.
'I dare say you do. So should I, in your place. But it's the first time I have heard you express the idea that we ought to do everything we like.'
'Why not, when it doesn't hurt any one else?'
'Oh, Mr. Muniment, Mr. Muniment!' Rosy exclaimed, with exaggerated solemnity, holding up a straight, attenuated forefinger at him. Then she added, 'No, she doesn't do you good, that beautiful, brilliant woman.'
'Give her time, my dear—give her time,' said Paul, looking at his watch.
'Of course you are impatient, but you must hear me. I have no doubt she'll wait for you; you won't lose your turn. Please, what would you do if any one was to break down altogether?'
'My bonny lassie,' the young man rejoined, 'if you only keep going, I don't care who fails.'
'Oh, I shall keep going, if it's only to look after my friends and get justice for them,' said Miss Muniment—'the delicate, sensitive creatures who require support and protection. Have you really forgotten that we have such a one as that?'
The young man walked to the window, with his hands in his pockets, and looked out at the fading light. 'Why does she go herself, then, if she doesn't like her?'
