And all the more so as she began to have doubts of the
truth of Ida's story. For the girl, who could not resist watching her
friend's post every day, much as she despised herself for doing it,
observed that no letter ever came to Mrs. Smith in Dermot's handwriting.
And, although Ida had talked much and sentimentally of him for days after
his departure, she appeared to forget him soon, and before long was
engrossed in a good-looking young civilian from Calcutta. Bain had long
since left Darjeeling.
Could it all have been a figment of the woman's imagination and
vanity?--for Noreen now realised how colossally vain she was. Had she
misunderstood or, worse still, misrepresented him? But that thought was
almost more painful to the girl than the certainty of his guilt. For if
it were true, how cruelly, how vilely unjust she had been to the man who
had saved her at the peril of his life, the man who had called her his
friend, who had trusted in her loyalty! No, no; better that he were
proved worthless, dishonourable. That thought were easier to bear.
Sometimes the girl almost wished that she could see him again so that she
might ask him the truth. She could learn nothing now from Ida, who calmly
ignored all attempts to extract information from her. Yet how could she
question him, Noreen asked herself. She could not even hint to him that she
had any knowledge of the affair, for her friend had divulged it to her in
confidence.
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