"What you have to say to him, Father, is very much my affair," she replied steadily. "My action for the rest of my life depends upon it."
"Dear," suggested the Virginian in a lowered voice, "you can trust me. I'm not going to lose my temper if it's humanly possible to keep it. There's no reason why you should have to listen to things which it will be hard to forget."
"No," she declared with a decisiveness that could not be shaken, "I stay here as long as you stay. When you go, I go, too."
Farquaharson turned to the minister, "I believe you called for me, sir," he repeated, in a tone of even politeness. "You have something to say to me?"
The old man raised a hand that was palsied with rage and his voice shook.
"I fancy you heard what I said of you. I said that you had abused my hospitality and that you are a coward and a sneak. You are worse than that; you are an infamous scoundrel."
Conscience felt the muscles in the forearm upon which her fingers rested grow tense and hard as cables. She saw the face pale to lividness and the lips stiffen, but except for that, the man made no movement, and for some ten seconds he did not speak. They were ten seconds of struggle against an anger as fierce as it was just, but at the end of that time he inquired quietly, "Is that all you meant to say to me?"
"No! There's much more, but for most men that would be enough. To let it go unanswered is a confession of its truth."
"My invariable answer to such words," said Stuart Farquaharson slowly, "is made with a clenched fist. The triple immunity of your cloth, your age and your infirmity denies me even that reply."
"And what immunity makes a denial unnecessary?"