A trifle paler than usual, he said:  “There is no real harm in her.  I know there is not.”

“You are very generous, Phil—­”

“No, I am trying to be truthful.  And I say there is no harm in her.  I have made up my mind on that score.”  He leaned nearer his sister and laid one hand on hers where it lay across the hammock’s edge: 

“Nina; no woman could have done what she has done, and continue to do what she does, and be mentally sound.  This, at last, is my conclusion.”

“It has long been my conclusion,” she said under her breath.

He stared at the floor out of gray eyes grown dull and hopeless.

“Phil,” whispered his sister, “suppose—­suppose—­what happened to her father—­”

“I know.”

She said again:  “It was slow at first, a brilliant eccentricity—­that gradually became—­something else less pleasant.  Oh, Phil!  Phil!”

“It was softening of the brain,” he said, “was it not?”

“Yes—­he entertained a delusion of conspiracy against him—­also a complacent conviction of the mental instability of others.  Yet, at intervals he remained clever and witty and charming.”

“And then?”

“Phil—­he became violent at times.”

“Yes.  And the end?” he asked quietly.

“A little child again—­quite happy and content—­playing with toys—­very gentle, very pitiable—­” The hot tears filled her eyes.  “Oh, Phil!” she sobbed and hid her face on his shoulder.

Over the soft, faintly fragrant hair he stared stupidly, lips apart, chin loose.

A little later, Nina sat up in the hammock, daintily effacing the traces of tears.  Selwyn was saying:  “If this is so, that Ruthven man has got to stand by her.  Where could she go—­if such trouble is to come upon her?  To whom can she turn if not to him?  He is responsible for her—­doubly so, if her condition is to be—­that!  By every law of manhood he is bound to stand by her now; by every law of decency and humanity he cannot desert her now.  If she does these—­these indiscreet things—­and if he knows she is not altogether mentally responsible—­he cannot fail to stand by her!  How can he, in God’s name!”

“Phil,” she said, “you speak like a man, but she has no man to stand loyally by her in the direst need a human soul may know.  He is only a thing—­no man at all—­only a loathsome accident of animated decadence.”

He looked up quickly, amazed at her sudden bitterness; and she looked back at him almost fiercely.

“I may as well tell you what I’ve heard,” she said; “I was not going to, at first; but it will be all around town sooner or later.  Rosamund told me.  She learned—­as she manages to learn everything a little before anybody else hears of it—­that Jack Ruthven found out that Alixe was behaving very carelessly with some man—­some silly, callow, and probably harmless youth.  But there was a disgraceful scene on Mr. Neergard’s yacht, the Niobrara.  I don’t know who the people were, but Ruthven acted abominably. . . .  The Niobrara anchored in Widgeon Bay yesterday; and Alixe is aboard, and her husband is in New York, and Rosamund says he means to divorce her in one way or another!  Ugh! the horrible little man with his rings and bangles!”