"But that's perfectly silly," went on the soft voice at his elbow. "I just want to be your friend, David. My mother adores you. So do I, but in just the same way that she does. I--I couldn't think of being so ridiculous as to fall in love with you." He resented this. "I don't see why you say that," he said, rather stiffly. "But," very hastily, "I'm not asking you to do it. Please don't misunderstand me. I--" "Mother and I are so sorry for you, David," she went on earnestly. "We--we don't believe a word of--of--well, you know." She was suddenly distressed. "How do you know that I'm not guilty?" he cried bitterly. "You have only my word for it. Of course, I'd deny it. Anybody would, even if he was as guilty as sin. I--I might have done it, for all you know." "Oh, don't--don't talk like that, David!" "Nearly every one with the show thinks I did it. It doesn't matter to them, either. They like me just as well. It's--it's as if I were a friendless, homeless dog. They're tender-hearted. They'd do as much for the dog, every time. I like them for it. I'll not forget everybody's kindness to me and--and their indifference." "Indifference, David?" "Yes. That's the word. It doesn't make any difference what I am, they just say it's all right and--and--that's all." She caught the intensely bitter note in his voice. Christine was young, but she had fine perceptions. Her lip trembled. "_Nobody_ thinks you did it," she cried in a vehement undertone. "Even father--" She stopped abruptly, a quick catch of compunction in her breath. "If he thinks I'm innocent, why is he so set on keeping me from talking to you or your mother?" he demanded quickly, a sudden fire entering his brain. "That doesn't look as if he thinks I'm all right, does it? I'm--I'm not a low-down person. If I was, I could see a reason. But I'm a gentleman. Every man in my family has been a gentleman since--oh, you'll think I'm boasting. I didn't mean to say this to you. It sounds snobbish. No, Christine, your father thinks I'm guilty." "He does not!" she whispered. "I know he doesn't. I've heard him argue with mother about you. He has told her that he does not believe that you killed your grandfather. I've heard him say it, David. He--he is only thinking of--must I say it? Of the disgrace to us if you should be caught and it came out we were your friends. That's it. He's thinking of us, David. It is so foolish of him. We both have told him so. But--but you don't know my father." There was a world of meaning in that declaration--and it was not disrespectful, either. David was discreetly silent. He was quelling the rage that always rose in his heart when he thought of Thomas Braddock's attitude, not only toward him but toward his wife.