"Yes, dear." Mrs. Winton's was a heavy footfall; but she had in this case a wholesome dread of blundering, and she was doing her utmost to tread lightly.
"I've told you already—it was all my doing that we did not write sooner. You must not blame Dick for that."
A shake of the head responded.
"Don't you understand? How could you and father say anything, till you had seen him? How can you now? He is a perfect stranger to you both."
"He ought to have given his address."
"No; I settled that." The girl was instantly eager in his defence. "Even if he had known where he was going, I wouldn't have let him. He has to come here, before anything is done."
Silence met this; not an easy silence to Mrs. Winton, who could have said a good deal.
"I know I wasn't right in one thing. I ought to have said more about him in writing—when I began to see—but it was horribly difficult. Somehow, I couldn't. Till he spoke, I could never be sure how he really felt."
"The question is—had he a right to speak at all?"
"Why, mother!—of course. Any man has a right, I suppose."