He told her what had happened and where the grave was, and stood in the sweet evening air with quieted manner before her.  She did not seem to be thinking of what he said.  “There was something else that I—­I rather wanted to take the first opportunity of saying to you.”

All her face now was rosy with embarrassment, and he saw that, although she went on bravely, she was shy—­shy of him!  He hardly took in what she was saying, in the wonder, in the pleasure of it.  Then he knew that she had been saying that she feared she had talked to him while mistaking him for his brother, that what she had said had doubtless appeared very wild, very foolish, as he did not know the conversation out of which it grew; probably he had forgotten or had not paid heed at the time, but if he should chance to remember, and had not already repeated her words, would he be kind enough not to do so, and to forget them himself?

This was her request, and he guessed, from the tenor of it, that she did not know how little he had heard in all or how much she had said to him and how much to his brother; that she would like to know, but was too proud to ask or to hear; that, in fact, this proud lady had said words that she was ashamed of.

“I haven’t said a word to Robert about it, and of course I won’t now.”  It was a very simple thing to say, yet some way he felt a better man in his own eyes because she had asked him.  He did not claim that he had paid no attention or forgotten, for he felt just now that all her words were so supremely worthy of deference that he only wished he could remember more of what she had let fall when her heart was stirred.  “Of course,” he said, “I didn’t know it had been Robert, or I would have gone back for him.”

He floundered on into the midst of excuses, and her embarrassment had time to pass away, with it the blush on her face, and he felt as if a sun had somewhere set.

“Thank you” (she was all sedateness now) “I fear that Principal Trenholme is suffering very much from his foot and will be kept in for some time.  If you had told me that you had repeated my unjust speeches I should have asked you to take some apology, to say that I am quite willing to acknowledge my own—­unreasonableness.”

He saw that this speech was intended to cover all the ground, and that he was desired to impart as much of the apology as he believed to be needed, and no more.  He remembered now that he had intended to plead Robert’s cause, but could think of nothing to say except—­

“Robert is—­Robert really is an awfully good man.”

This he said so suddenly and so earnestly looking at her, that she was betrayed into an unintended answer.

“Is he?” And then in a moment she smiled on him again, and said warmly, “He certainly is if you say that; a brother knows as no one else can.”