“What’s the matter, then?”
“My self-respect is the matter—a thing beyond your comprehension. To have to sit and suffer such a guest—in silence—as though I seemed to countenance her presence! That is the matter.”
Mrs. Davis, half-whimpering, put her knuckles to her eyes.
“Why don’t you speak to him, then,” she said, “and have me turned out? O, dear, O, dear! A nice way this to treat a harmless visitor!”
Harmless! For the first time a wonder seized her little ladyship. Was she really maligning in her heart a rustic simpleton? No, there was something here adroite, practised, something indescribable, which precluded the idea. And yet the thought had come to puzzle and disturb her. Though she could not believe, her tone was less uncompromising when she spoke again.
“I speak to him? It is not for such as you to understand. To answer to an insult is to flatter it. Let him answer for his own, so it be one, to himself and you. Never fear that I shall complain.” She turned away and back again. “I ask no questions about you,” she said. “I desire to hear and know nothing. Your conduct, if you speak truth, need be your only voucher.”
She took up her gloves, preparing to leave the room, then stopped, as if on a resistless impulse, and looked into the slut’s eyes.
“You have a pretty face, child,” she said. “I know not whence it comes, or what designs; but I would fain think no evil of it.”
And she gathered up her things and went, without another word.
It had been a brief interview, but a stupefying. For some moments after she was left alone Moll stood motionless, as if afraid to stir. Then, gradually, expression came back to her face, and she gave a soft whistle.