“But, George, don't you think—you are on such good terms with Mrs. Hale and her mother—that you might tell them the whole story? That is, tell it in your own way; they will hear anything from you, and believe it.”
“Thank you; but suppose I don't believe in lying, either?”
“You know what I mean! You have a way, d—n it, of making everything seem like a matter of course, and the most natural thing going.”
“Well, suppose I did. Are you prepared for the worst?”
Falkner was silent for a moment, and then replied, “Yes, anything would be better than this suspense.”
“I don't agree with you. Then you would be willing to have them forgive us?”
“I don't understand you.”
“I mean that their forgiveness would be the worst thing that could happen. Look here, Ned. Stop a moment; listen at that door. Mrs. Hale has the tread of an angel, with the pervading capacity of a cat. Now listen! I don't pretend to be in love with anybody here, but if I were I should hardly take advantage of a woman's helplessness and solitude with a sensational story about myself. It's not giving her a fair show. You know she won't turn you out of the house.”
“No,” said Falkner, reddening; “but I should expect to go at once, and that would be my only excuse for telling her.”
“Go! where? In your preoccupation with that girl you haven't even found the trail by which Manuel escaped. Do you intend to camp outside the house, and make eyes at her when she comes to the window?”