"None in the least. I would much rather that he should be there than here."
"I don't like him. I don't like him at all;--and now you know the truth. You believe in him;--I don't. You think him to be a fine fellow and a gentleman, whereas I don't think him to be either."
"Yes, my dear; but the truth is, Clara, that you and I, living together here this sort of hermit's life, each seeing so much of the other and seeing nothing of anybody else, must either be real friends, telling each other what we think, or we must be nothing. We can't go on with the ordinary make-believes of society, saying little civil speeches and not going beyond them. Therefore I have made up my mind to tell you in plain language that I don't like your cousin, and don't believe in him."
"I don't know what you mean by believing in a man."
"I believe in you. Sometimes I have thought that you believe in me, and sometimes I have feared that you do not. I think that you are good, and honest, and true; and therefore I like to see your face and hear your voice,--though it is not often that you say very pleasant things to me."
"I am not going to quarrel with you,--not if I can help it. What business has Mr. Belton to go about London making inquiries as to me? What have I done to him, that he should honour me so far?"
"Yes; he has. If you have been contented with me as I am,--if you are satisfied, why should he want to learn more? If you have any question to ask me I will answer it. But what right can he have to be asking questions among strangers?"
Clara had no question to ask, and yet she could not say that she was satisfied. She would have been better satisfied to have known more of Mrs. Askerton, but yet she had never condescended to make inquiries about her friend. But her curiosity was now greatly raised; and, indeed, Mrs. Askerton's manner was so strange, her vehemence so unusual, and her eagerness to rush into dangerous subjects so unlike her usual tranquillity in conversation, that Clara did not know how to answer her.
"I know nothing of any questioning," she said.
"I am sure you don't. Had I thought you did, much as I love you,--valuable as your society is to me down in this desert,--I would never speak to you again. But remember,--if you want to ask any questions, and will ask them of me,--of me,--I will answer them, and will not be angry."