“That doesn’t justify me,” Burnamy began, but she cut him short almost as severely as she—­had dealt with her father.

“Yes, it does!  It justifies you perfectly!  And his wanting you to falsify the whole thing afterwards, more than justifies you.”

Neither of the men attempted anything in reply to her casuistry; they both looked equally posed by it, for different reasons; and Agatha went on as vehemently as before, addressing herself now to one and now to the other.

“And besides, if it didn’t justify you, what you have done yourself would; and your never denying it, or trying to excuse it, makes it the same as if you hadn’t done it, as far as you are concerned; and that is all I care for.”  Burnamy started, as if with the sense of having heard something like this before, and with surprise at hearing it now; and she flushed a little as she added tremulously, “And I should never, never blame you for it, after that; it’s only trying to wriggle out of things which I despise, and you’ve never done that.  And he simply had to come back,” she turned to her father, “and tell me himself just how it was.  And you said yourself, papa—­or the same as said—­that he had no right to suppose I was interested in his affairs unless he—­unless—­And I should never have forgiven him, if he hadn’t told me then that he that he had come back because he—­felt the way he did.  I consider that that exonerated him for breaking his word, completely.  If he hadn’t broken his word I should have thought he had acted very cruelly and—­and strangely.  And ever since then, he has behaved so nobly, so honorably, so delicately, that I don’t believe he would ever have said anything again—­if I hadn’t fairly forced him.  Yes!  Yes, I did!” she cried at a movement of remonstrance from Burnamy.  “And I shall always be proud of you for it.”  Her father stared steadfastly at her, and he only lifted his eyebrows, for change of expression, when she went over to where Burnamy stood, and put her hand in his with a certain childlike impetuosity.  “And as for the rest,” she declared, “everything I have is his; just as everything of his would be mine if I had nothing.  Or if he wishes to take me without anything, then he can have me so, and I sha’n’t be afraid but we can get along somehow.”  She added, “I have managed without a maid, ever since I left home, and poverty has no terrors for me!”

LXVIII.

General Triscoe submitted to defeat with the patience which soldiers learn.  He did not submit amiably; that would have been out of character, and perhaps out of reason; but Burnamy and Agatha were both so amiable that they supplied good-humor for all.  They flaunted their rapture in her father’s face as little as they could, but he may have found their serene satisfaction, their settled confidence in their fate, as hard to bear as a more boisterous happiness would have been.

It was agreed among them all that they were to return soon to America, and Burnamy was to find some sort of literary or journalistic employment in New York.  She was much surer than he that this could be done with perfect ease; but they were of an equal mind that General Triscoe was not to be disturbed in any of his habits, or vexed in the tenor of his living; and until Burnamy was at least self-supporting there must be no talk of their being married.