She spoke at last, tranquilly as ever.
"He was poor, Percival, and we wanted to help him. You and I are not likely to think the worse of a man for being poor, are we? He had been ill; he seemed to be in trouble, and we were sorry for him; and I do not think that my uncle made a mistake in taking him."
"And I," said Percival, with an edge in his voice, "think that he made a very great mistake."
"Why?"
"Why?" he repeated, with a short, savage laugh. "I shall not tell you why."
"Do you know anything against Mr. Stretton?"
"Yes."
"What, Percival?" Her tone was indignant; the colour was flaming in her cheeks.
"I know that Stretton is not his name. My father told me so." There was a pause, and then Percival went on, in a low voice, but with a gathering intensity which made it more impressive than his louder tones. "I'll tell you what I should do if I were my father. I should say to this fellow—'Now, you may be in trouble through no fault of your own, but that is no matter to me. If you cannot bear your own name, you have no business to live in an honest man's house under false pretences; you may, therefore, either tell me your whole story, and let me judge whether it is a disgraceful one or not, or you may go—the quicker the better.' That's what I should say to Mr. Stretton; and the sooner it is said to him the more I shall be pleased."
"Fortunately," said Elizabeth, "the decision does not rest in your hands." She rose, and drew herself to her full height; her cheeks were crimson, her eyes gleamed with indignation. "Mr. Stretton is a gentleman; as long as he is in my employment—mine, if you please; not yours, nor your father's, after all—he shall be treated as one. You could not have shown yourself more ungenerous, more poor-spirited, Percival, than by what you have said to-day."