Helbeck's countenance changed. He sauntered on beside her, his hands in
his pockets, frowning. But he did not reply, and she became impatient.

"I have been reading a French story this morning," she said quickly.
"There is a character in it--a priest. The author says of him that he had
'une imagination faussee et troublee.'" She paused, then added with great
vivacity--"I thought it applied to someone else--don't you?"

The fold in Helbeck's forehead deepened a little.

"Have you judged him already? I don't know--I can't take Williams, you
see, quite as you take him. To me he is still the strange gifted boy I
taught to draw--whom I had to protect from his brutal father. He has
chosen the higher life, and will soon be a priest. He is therefore my
superior. But at the same time I think I understand him and his
character. I understand the kind of impulse--the impetuosity--that made
him do and say what he did last night."

"It was our engagement, of course, that he meant--by your fall--the black
cloud that covered you?"

The impetuous directness was all Laura; so was the sensitive change in
eye and lip. But Helbeck neither wavered, nor caressed her. He had a
better instinct. He looked at her with a penetrating glance.

"I don't think he quite knew what he meant. And you? Now I will carry the
war into the enemy's country! Were you quite kind--quite right in doing
what you did last night? Foolish or no, he was speaking in a very
intimate way--of things that he felt deeply. It must have given him great
pain to be overheard."