you have been beneath the same roof with him for some
months, how is it with you? You _feel_ that he is innocent?"

There is a terrible amount of almost agonized earnestness in her tone.

"How you catechise one," says Portia, with a painfully bald attempt at
indifference that does not impose upon the slowly awakening suspicions
of the other for one instant. "Let us change the subject."

"In one moment. I want an answer to my question first. Now that you have
seen and known Fabian, do you believe him innocent?"

A most fatal silence follows. Had the question referred to any one
else--had even any one else asked the question, she might have evaded it
successfully, or even condescended to an actual misstatement of her real
thoughts on the subject rather than give pain or be guilty of a social
error. She would, in all probability, have smiled and said, "Yes, oh!
yes; one must see that he is incapable of such an act," and so on. But
just now she seems tongue-tied, unable to say one word to allay her
companion's fears. A strange sense of oppression that weighs upon her
breast grows heavier and more insupportable at each moment, and Dulce's
great gleaming eyes of blackest gray are reading her very soul, and
scorching her with their reproachful fire.

"Speak," she cries at last, in a vehement tone, laying her hand on
Portia's arm, and holding her with unconscious force. "Say--say," with a
miserable attempt at entreaty, and a cruel sob, "that you do not believe
him guilty of this cursed thing."

Portia's lips are so dry and parched that they absolutely refuse to give
utterance to any words. In vain she tries to conquer the deadness that
is overpowering her, but without avail. She lifts her eyes beseechingly,
and then grows literally afraid of the girl leaning over her, so intense
and bitter is the hatred and scorn that mar the beauty of her usually
fair, childish face.

This upward, nervous glance, breaks the spell of silence, and gives
voice to Dulce's wrath. It does more, it betrays to her the truth--the
bitter fact--that in Portia's eyes her brother--her beloved--is neither
more nor less than a successful criminal.

"No, do not trouble yourself to answer me," she says, in cold, cutting
tones. "I want no lies, no pretty speeches. I thank you, at least, that
you have spared me those. In your soul--I can see--you think him guilty
of this shameful deed. Oh! it is horrible!" She covers her face with
both her hands, and swa