I shook my head silently.

“Now, don’t be hard-hearted; I have never seen any man more devoted than he is to you.  A woman must forgive a few shortcomings, now and then, in one of our faulty sex.  You lived so long with a man who was almost perfect, that you cannot make allowances for impulsive and indiscreet young manhood.  What has poor Claude been guilty of?”

“I will tell you,” I said, recovering myself by the time this speech was ended, by a mighty effort.  “I will tell you:  Guilty only of doing violence to his own inclinations, from a mistaken sense of duty to his father; that is all.  I never felt more kindly—­more affectionately to Claude Bainrothe than at this moment.  If I can serve him in any way, but one, he may always command me.  Let him go for the present to Copenhagen, I implore you; it will be best for him—­for all of us.  He will know his own mind better then, than he can now.  When he returns, I would like to see him happy.  I doubt if he will be so, if he remains here,” I faltered; “I should dislike, very much, to see him make shipwreck of his happiness.”  I hesitated, choked again.  “I acknowledge—­”

“You have cut him off, Miriam, that is plain, for the present, at least,” he interrupted.  “Yet you speak in enigmas; but, if he be the man I think he is, he will make all clear to you at last, for I am sure he is incapable of any act radically wrong, and is the soul of chivalrous honor; always ready to repair a folly, and avoid it in future.  The very best fellow living.”

I had never seen Mr. Bainrothe so moved before as he now certainly was.  The glitter of a tear was in his mottled eye, and it stirred me strangely.  It was as if a snake should weep, and what in Nature could be more affecting than such a spectacle?  Or, rather, what out of Nature?

There must have been, despite this tender showing, an outbreak of some sort between father and son from the time of this call and the next visit of Mr. Bainrothe, which occurred some days later.

The expression of concentrated rage on his face was unmistakable on this occasion.  Its usually placid, polished expression was laid aside, for one of unqualified displeasure.  He was pale as marble too, which was a sign of excitement with him, with his complexion, usually clear and florid.

“Again I come to you, Miriam,” he said, “and this time with his permission to mediate between you and my unhappy son.  Believe me, you attach too much consequence to hasty and half-comprehended expressions, uttered, as he avers, to appease the offended vanity of an angry and implacable—­ay, and dangerous woman.  There are few things a man will not say for such a purpose.  He went too far in his anxiety to conciliate malice, and allay an evil temper.  This is all that can be imputed to him.  Be reasonable, my dear girl! you are alone in the world; we are your truest friends.  It shall be our study—­mine, as well as his—­to