“Why?—Oh, I remember. Do you mean that thing she said this morning?”
“Of course I do.”
“But, my dear May, it really doesn’t matter much, does it? I don’t let her talk, and as a model she is one in a thousand. Besides, what did she say? I’ve forgotten. Nothing very bad, was it?”
May put down her knife and fork.
“Tom, can’t you see? It hurts me that she should be here. It makes me feel ill. It is not right to have a girl like that in the house.”
Tom crumbled his bread attentively.
“I think you take rather an exaggerated view of it, dear,” he said. “Of course that class of young woman is not very particular in its language; but what has that to do with me?”
“She is wicked,” said May.
“Really you seem to me to build a good deal on one remark. Of course I am sorry you heard it. She expected to be allowed to talk as much as she pleased at first; but I stopped that.”
“Tom, how can you condone that sort of thing? Oh——”