“Oh, May, you are a darling!” he said. “Oh dear, how funny! I’m so sorry for laughing; but really it is funny. Have you ever heard Manvers talk about that? He becomes quite virtuous and indignant over it. I don’t know much about Paris life myself, I was only there a month or two, but Manvers—he does not strike you as being very like David Grieve in Paris, does he?”
May joined in Tom’s laugh, but grew serious again.
“You know I feel about it very deeply,” she said; “there is nothing in the world I feel about so much. I think it is our first duty not to condone by word or deed what one knows is bad. To let people see that one will not tolerate it, to fight against it, to—to show that one loathes it.”
“Do you mean you want me never to see Manvers again?” asked Tom.
“No, not that,” said May, “because you know him well, and he is very fond of you, and I think you do him good. But couldn’t you do him more good? Couldn’t you talk to him about it, and bear your testimony?”
“No, dear,” said Tom, quietly, “I couldn’t possibly. It is not my business. I know Manvers as a friend, as an excellent companion, as a most amusing fellow. Why, May, he would think I was mad. Men do not talk to each other about such things.”
“But surely it is our business,” said May. “Tom, you don’t think me tiresome, do you?”
Tom smiled, and took up her hand again.
“My darling, I happen to love you,” he said, “and it does not occur to one to think a person one loves tiresome.”
May went on with gathering earnestness.