“I believe in him so much,” said Freda, with emphasis that caused her voice to break, “that I’d stake everything—yes, my life, on him. And you, Mother, without even inquiring into it, are ready, just like the rest of these fools, to throw your harpoon into an innocent man.
“All I say,” replied her mother, haughtily, and with an aggravating smile, “is that this home—my home—is now closed to your glorious hero. I trust that is quite plain?”
Freda could not speak. Her face suddenly grew white as she stood in the middle of the dining-room floor fastening vengeful eyes upon her mother.
“It was even reported,” continued Mrs. MacDowell, turning to arrange some flowers in a vase on the buffet, “that Mr. Bard spent the night at Mrs. Poynton’s.”
“It’s a lie—a damned lie!” burst forth Freda. “Oh, tell me who said that!”
“No, I shall do nothing of the sort. Possibly you can imagine that it was told me in a kindly spirit.”
“When—did they say he—did that?”
“Last week, of course,” she replied. “When you were wondering what had become of him.”
“Mother,” Freda said more calmly, “Mauney will deny this for me. I know it’s all a hopeless lie, one of the big, black lies that they love so much. You don’t know him, Mother. You don’t even want to know him. But let me tell you one thing, that you are as bad as the rest of them!”