“They?” I asked.

“Oh, Elizabeth and her brother.  They’ve been at her all afternoon—­off and on.”

“To do what?”

“To ‘save herself,’ so they call it.  They’re insisting that she must not see her poor husband again.  They’re determined she sha’n’t.”

“But George wouldn’t worry her,” I objected.

“Oh, wouldn’t he?” The girl laughed sadly.  “I don’t suppose he could help it, he’s in such a state himself, but between him and Elizabeth it’s hard to see how poor Mrs. Harman lived through the day.”

“Well,” I said slowly, “I don’t see that they’re not right.  She ought to be kept out of all this as much as possible; and if her husband has to go through a trial—­”

“I want you to tell me something,” Miss Elliott interrupted.  “How much do you like Mr. Ward?”

“He’s an old friend.  I suppose I like my old friends in about the same way that other people like theirs.”

“How much do you like Mr. Saffren—­I mean Mr. Harman?”

“Oh, that!” I groaned.  “If I could still call him ‘Oliver Saffren,’ if I could still think of him as ‘Oliver Saffren,’ it would be easy to answer.  I never was so ‘drawn’ to a man in my life before.  But when I think of him as Larrabee Harman, I am full of misgivings.”

“Louise isn’t,” she put in eagerly, and with something oddly like the manner of argument.  “His wife isn’t!”

“Oh, I know.  Perhaps one reason is that she never saw him at quite his worst.  I did.  I had only two glimpses of him—­of the briefest—­but they inspired me with such a depth of dislike that I can’t tell you how painful it was to discover that ’Oliver Saffren’—­this strange, pathetic, attractive friend of mine—­is the same man.”

“Oh, but he isn’t!” she exclaimed quickly.

“Keredec says he is,” I laughed helplessly.

“So does Louise,” returned Miss Elliott, disdaining consistency in her eagerness.  “And she’s right—­and she cares more for him than she ever did!”

“I suppose she does.”

“Are you—­” the girl began, then stopped for a moment, looking at me steadily.  “Aren’t you a little in love with her?”

“Yes,” I answered honestly.  “Aren’t you?”

“That’s what I wanted to know!” she said; and as she turned a page in the sketch-book for the benefit of Mr. Percy, I saw that her hand had begun to tremble.

“Why?” I asked, leaning toward her across the table.

“Because, if she were involved in some undertaking—­something that, if it went wrong, would endanger her happiness and, I think, even her life—­ for it might actually kill her if she failed, and brought on a worse catastrophe—­”

“Yes?” I said anxiously, as she paused again.

“You’d help her?” she said.

“I would indeed,” I assented earnestly.  “I told her once I’d do anything in the world for her.”

“Even if it involved something that George Ward might never forgive you for?”