She shuddered:  “Why, the mere bringing of such a suit means her social ruin no matter what verdict is brought in!  Her only salvation has been in remaining inconspicuous; and a sane girl would have realised it.  But”—­and she made a gesture of despair—­“you see what she has done. . . .  And Phil—­you know what she has done to you—­what a mad risk she took in going to your rooms that night—­”

“Who said she had ever been in my rooms?” he demanded, flushing darkly in his surprise.

“Did you suppose I didn’t know it?” she asked quietly.  “Oh, but I did; and it kept me awake nights, worrying.  Yet I knew it must have been all right—­knowing you as I do.  But do you suppose other people would hold you as innocent as I do?  Even Eileen—­the sweetest, whitest, most loyal little soul in the world—­was troubled when Rosamund hinted at some scandal touching you and Alixe.  She told me—­but she did not tell me what Rosamund had said—­the mischief maker!”

His face had become quite colourless; he raised an unsteady hand to his mouth, touching his moustache; and his gray eyes narrowed menacingly.

“Rosamund—­spoke of scandal to—­Eileen?” he repeated.  “Is that possible?”

“How long do you suppose a girl can live and not hear scandal of some sort?” said Nina.  “It’s bound to rain some time or other, but I prepared my little duck’s back to shed some things.”

“You say,” insisted Selwyn, “that Rosamund spoke of me—­in that way—­to Eileen?”

“Yes.  It only made the child angry, Phil; so don’t worry.”

“No; I won’t worry.  No, I—­I won’t.  You are quite right, Nina.  But the pity of it; that tight, hard-shelled woman of the world—­to do such a thing—­to a young girl.”

“Rosamund is Rosamund,” said Nina with a shrug; “the antidote to her species is obvious.”

“Right, thank God!” said Selwyn between his teeth; “Mens sana in corpore sano! bless her little heart!  I’m glad you told me this, Nina.”

He rose and laughed a little—­a curious sort of laugh; and Nina watched him, perplexed.

“Where are you going, Phil?” she asked.

“I don’t know.  I—­where is Eileen?”

“She’s lying down—­a headache; probably too much sun and salt water.  Shall I send for her?”

“No; I’ll go up and inquire how she is.  Susanne is there, isn’t she?”

And he entered the house and ascended the stairs.

The little Alsatian maid was seated in a corner of the upper hall, sewing; and she informed Selwyn that mademoiselle “had bad in ze h’ead.”

But at the sound of conversation in the corridor Eileen’s gay voice came to them from her room, asking who it was; and she evidently knew, for there was a hint of laughter in her tone.

“It is I. Are you better?” said Selwyn.

“Yes.  D-did you wish to see me?”

“I always do.”

“Thank you. . . .  I mean, do you wish to see me now?  Because I’m very much occupied in trying to go to sleep.”