"
Sir Oliver swore softly under his breath.
"I believed her pure and good, and...." He checked. "After all, who am I
to say even now that she was not? 'Twas no fault of hers. 'Twas he,
that foul dog Godolphin, who perverted her. Until he came all was well
between us. And then...."
"I see," said Sir Oliver quietly. "I think you have something for which
to thank him, if he revealed to you the truth of that strumpet's nature.
I would have warned thee, lad. But...Perhaps I have been weak in that."
"It was not so; it was not she...."
"I say it was, and if I say so I am to be believed, Lionel. I'd smirch
no woman's reputation without just cause. Be very sure of that."
Lionel stared up at him. "O God!" he cried presently, "I know not what
to believe. I am a shuttle-cock flung this way and that way."
"Believe me," said Sir Oliver grimly. "And set all doubts to rest."
Then he smiled. "So that was the virtuous Master Peter's secret
pastime, eh? The hypocrisy of man! There is no plumbing the endless
depths of it!"
He laughed outright, remembering all the things that Master Peter had
said of Ralph Tressilian--delivering himself as though he were some
chaste and self-denying anchorite. Then on that laugh he caught
his breath quite suddenly. "Would she know?" he asked fearfully.
"Would that harlot know, would she suspect that 'twas your hand did
this?"
"Aye--would she," replied the other.
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