“Now, that is a rather difficult question to answer,” replied the Head. “Taken in the broadest sense, I should be inclined to think that the great mass of women are less honourable than men. But that is the result of long ages of being regarded as irresponsible beings—the mere appendage or chattel of man—with no moral standing of their own. Taken in the individual sense, I believe that when a woman or a girl is honourable, she is far more so than a man—that is to say, she would be honourable down to the last shred of detail, while a man under like conditions would be honourable in the bulk, but absolutely careless of the smaller details. That is largely theory, however, and does not concern the present business in the least. We have talked about it enough, too, and now we will leave it alone. I do not forget—and I am sure the governors will not forget—that you, of your own free will, came to me with this uncomfortable fact from your father’s past, and that you offered to withdraw, or to do anything else which I might decide was best.”
Dorothy rose to go. There was one question she had to ask, a fearfully difficult one, but she screwed her courage to the attempt. “Supposing I came out top in the running for the Bursary, but the governors decided I might not take it, would they give the Bursary to the girl who was next below me?”
The Head looked thoughtful—she even hesitated before replying; then she said slowly, “I do not know. I do not think such a case as this has ever arisen before. They might even decide not to give the Bursary at all this year. Why did you ask?”
The hot colour flamed over Dorothy’s face, it mounted to the roots of her hair, she was suddenly the picture of confusion, and stammered out the first answer which came into her head, “I—I just wanted to know.”
“Dorothy, what is it that you know against Rhoda Fleming, which would put her out of the running for the Bursary if you told?”
The voice of the Head was so quiet, so curiously level, that for a moment Dorothy did not grasp the full significance of the question. Then it flashed upon her that she held Rhoda in her hand, and, with Rhoda, her own sense of honour also.
“Oh! I could not tell you—I could not. I beg of you do not ask me,” she cried, stretching out her hands imploringly, then questioned eagerly, “How did you even guess there was anything?”
“By the way Rhoda has treated you all the term; but I could not be sure until I had asked you a point-blank question at a moment when you were not expecting it,” replied the Head; and then she said kindly, “Why can you not trust me with your knowledge, Dorothy?”
The colour faded from Dorothy’s face. She was white and spent; indeed, she looked as if tears were not far away as she stood with her back to the door and the strong light of the sunset full on her face. “The knowledge I have came to me without my seeking,” she said in a low tone. “I have no means of proving what I know, and if I told you it would seem like taking a dishonourable way of downing a rival in work.”
“I understand that,” said the Head. “Why did you ask me about Rhoda, if she would have the Bursary if you were not allowed to keep it?”