“Does it concern him?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Is it disgraceful?”
“No.”
He made one futile attempt to stop in the middle of the rapids into which he or she, he did not know which, had steered.
“Then, tell me nothing, Helen,” he said. “You say it is not disgraceful. That is quite sufficient for me when it comes from your mouth. I do not wish to be told either by him or you. There is no past that can be raked up—ah, I need not have asked you that. You would have turned from him with loathing if there had been that. For the rest I am satisfied. He has artistic tastes of which I have no knowledge, and with which no sympathy. He is honourable and of a great name, he is liked, respected; he is a man whom I would have chosen myself for you, and he has the interests and welfare of the church close to his heart——“
He stopped suddenly, arrested by the sudden whiteness of her face.
“Or what?” he asked.
“He is not even a Christian,” said Helen, simply.
Mr. Challoner did not reply at once. The habit of tidiness in him, unconsciously asserting itself, led him to put square the case of cards which his sister had used for her Patience. Then he turned down with his foot the corner of the hearth-rug which Helen’s dress, as she walked to the fireplace, had disarranged. Indeed, it had distressed him for some time; it was easy to trip on it. Then he spoke.