THE PRINCE
"No—it depends on nothing. Because there's only one way—for duty or delicacy."
"Oh—delicacy!" Bob Assingham rather crudely murmured.
"I mean the highest kind—moral. Charlotte's perfectly capable of appreciating that. By every dictate of moral delicacy she must let him alone."
"Then you've made up your mind it's all poor Charlotte?" he asked with an effect of abruptness.
The effect, whether intended or not, reached her—brought her face short round. It was a touch at which she again lost her balance, at which the bottom somehow dropped out of her recovered comfort. "Then you've made up yours differently? It really struck you that there is something?"
The movement itself apparently made him once more stand off. He had felt on his nearer approach the high temperature of the question. "Perhaps that's just what she's doing: showing him how much she's letting him alone—pointing it out to him from day to day."
"Did she point it out by waiting for him to-night on the staircase in the manner you described to me?"
"I really, my dear, described to you a manner?"—the Colonel clearly, from want of habit, scarce recognised himself in the imputation.
"Yes—for once in a way; in those few words we had after you had watched them come up you told me something of what you had seen. You didn't tell me very much—that you couldn't for your life; but I saw for myself that, strange to say, you had received
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