June began to experience a sense of misery. “What are you down on him for?” she said. “I like him. I like him a great deal.” It seemed to her that by thus openly voicing her predilection for Barclay she, in some way or other, atoned for her previous prevarications. “Like him a great deal?” repeated the Colonel, staring somberly at her. “What does that mean?” She was instantly alarmed and sought to obliterate the effect of her words. “Oh, I like him very much. I think he’s interesting and handsome, and--and--and--very nice. Just that way.” Nothing could have sounded more innocently tame. The simple man beside her, who had loved but one woman and known the honest friendship of others as uncomplex as himself, was relieved. “Barclay’s not the man for a good girl to be friends with,” he continued with more assurance of tone. “He’s all that you say, handsome, and well educated, and a smooth talker and all that. But his record is not the kind a man likes. He’s done things that are not what a decent man does. I can’t tell you. I can’t talk to you about it. But rely on me. I’m right.” “I know all about it,” she answered, turning round and looking calmly at him. “All about it!--about what?”--he stammered, completely taken aback. “About that hateful story of Mrs. Newbury.” The Colonel’s face reddened slightly. He had the traditional masculine idea of the young girl as a being of transparent ignorance, off which the wickedness of the world glanced as bird-shot off the surface of a crystal ball. Now he was pained and shocked, not only that June should have heard the story but that she should thus coolly allude to it. “Then if you’ve heard it,” he said almost coldly, “you should know without my telling you that Jerry Barclay’s no man for you to know, or walk with, or have any acquaintance with.” “You don’t suppose I believe it, do you?” she said with the same almost hard composure. This indeed was a new view of the situation. For six years the Colonel had heard the affair between young Barclay and Mrs. Newbury talked of and speculated upon. It had now passed to the stage of shelved acceptance. People no longer speculated. Their condemnation savored even of the indifference of familiarity. The only thing that nobody did was to doubt. And here was a girl, looking him in the face and calmly assuring him of her disbelief. Had he known more of women he would have realized how dangerous a portent it was. “But--but--why don’t you believe it?” he asked, still in the stage of stammering surprise. “Because I know Mr. Barclay,” she answered triumphantly, fixing him with a kindling eye. “Well, that may be a reason,” said the Colonel, then stopped and drew himself to an upright position on the bench. He did not know what to say. Her belief in the man he knew to be guilty had in it a trustfulness of youth that was to him exceedingly pathetic.