"Well, on the stage, anyhow—dancing on the stage—it's the same thing."
"Who told you that?"
"Humphrey said she had been on the stage, and Mrs. Graham remembered seeing her when she was in America."
"Is Humphrey here?"
"Yes, he came this afternoon. An American dancer, you know, Dick, and a woman who would marry George Dubec—really, you might have thought twice before you brought a person of that sort here; and as for your mother calling on her—that's out of the question. Surely you can see that."
The Squire's tone was conciliatory. He would not have spoken in that way, upon a subject on which he felt strongly, to any one else in the world, and when he had spoken he threw a glance at his son, whose face betokened nothing of all he was thinking at that moment.
Dick did not speak at once. When he did he said quietly, "When I suggested to Lady George, who has been a friend of mine for some time, that she should spend a month or two in this part of the country, I told her that my people would be glad to see her and do what they could for her. It never crossed my mind that you would refuse to acknowledge a friend of mine. It is not my habit to make friends of women I couldn't introduce you or my mother to."
"But, my dear boy!" expostulated the Squire. "A woman who has danced on the stage, the widow of a notorious profligate and swindler—George Dubec was a swindler, and he wasn't received latterly even in men's society—decent men. I wouldn't have received him, for one."
"You can say what you like about George Dubec," replied Dick. "It was the way he had treated her that made me sorry for her, first of all. Then I found she was a good woman, as well as a very charming one. There isn't a soul who knows her—and lots of people know her—who could have a word to say against her. It isn't generally known that she was on the stage—it was for a very short time—and I wish to goodness Humphrey had minded his own business and kept that to himself. Her father was a planter in the South, and lost everything he had in the war. She had to support her mother, and that was the only way. She was very young. I honour her for what she did."
"Yes, oh yes, that's all right," said the Squire, who was coming more and more to feel that it was all wrong. "But it's no good, Dick. Plenty of people in their different lines of life do things that you can honour them for, as you say, but you don't welcome them to houses like Kencote. We live a quiet enough life here, I know that. We're not one of the modern smart country houses, thank God, and never will be as long as I'm alive. But we're of some account in this part of the world, and have been for generations. And the long and the short of it is, Dick, that if you want to make friends with ladies of that sort, I can't stop you—I don't want to—it's your affair and you're old enough to look after yourself—but I won't have them at Kencote."