"Of course not! Of course not, Janet," said she. "No child of mine could be mercenary without being utterly false to my teachings."
Janet's expression was respectful, yet not confirmatory. She had often protested inwardly against the sordid views of life which her mother unconsciously held and veiled with scant decency in the family circle in her unguarded moments. But she had fought against the contamination, and proudly felt that her battle for the "higher plane" was successful.
Her mother returned, somewhat awkwardly, to the main point. "I hope you didn't encourage him, Janet."
"I don't wish to talk of it, mother," was Janet's reply. "I have not been well, and all this has upset me."
Mrs. Whitney was gnawing her palms with her nails and her lip with her teeth. She could scarcely restrain herself from seizing her daughter and shaking the truth, whatever it was, out of her. But prudence and respect for her daughter's delicate soul restrained her.
"You have made it doubly hard for me," Janet went on. "Your writing me to stay away because there was doubt about Arthur's material future—oh, mother, how could that make any difference? If I had not been feeling so done, and if father hadn't been looking to me to keep him company, I'd surely have gone. For I hate to have my motive misunderstood."
"He has worked on her soft-heartedness and inexperience," thought Mrs.
Whitney, in a panic.
"And when Arthur came to-day," the girl continued, "I was ready to fly to him." She looked tragic. "And even when he repulsed me—"
"Repulsed you!" exclaimed Mrs. Whitney. She laughed disagreeably. "He's subtler than I thought."
"Even when he repulsed me," pursued Janet, "with his sordid way of looking at everything, still I tried to cling to him, to shut my eyes."