Wyndham hesitates. Who is she, indeed? Who is this tenant of his?
‘You hesitate, I see,’ says Mr. Barry. ‘You have the grace to do even so much. But at all events you cannot deny that you permitted the presence of my young daughter in that place beyond.’
‘I—’
‘A truce to subterfuges, sir!’ cries the Rector. ‘A plain answer I will and must get. Who is this girl who lives in your house and refuses to see or know anyone in her neighbourhood?’
‘I don’t know,’ says Wyndham sullenly, angered beyond control.
‘I do,’ says the Rector, ‘and may God forgive you for your sin! She is—’
‘Be silent!’ cries Wyndham, interrupting him so imperiously that the older man stops short. ‘She is my tenant—my tenant, I repeat, and’—haughtily—‘no more.’
Silence follows upon this. The Rector, lost in thought, stands with clasped hands behind his back and his eyes upon the ground. His silence incenses Wyndham.
‘You can believe me or not, as you like,’ says he, turning on his heel.
He moves away.