Mrs. Van Horn rose from her chair. She was visibly trembling. "You could have given that adventuress a position far more stable than she holds now, as the wife of a lucky stock-gambler!"
Thurston remained seated. "You call her an adventuress," he said, "and yet you visit her—you put her on a social equality with yourself."
During the vigilant scrutiny with which he accompanied these words, Mrs. Van Horn's brother decided that in all his experience of her he had never seen her show such perturbation as now.
"People acknowledge her," she said, a little hoarsely. "I have never been to her entertainments. I have never accepted her, so to speak. If you inquire, you will find this to be true. It is current talk, my reserve, my disapproval."
He shot his answer with quiet speed, meaning that it should hit and tell. "You are going to the lunch that she gives on Friday. I happen to be certain of this—unless you have had the wanton rudeness to write her that you would go, while meaning to remain away." He rose as he spoke the last word. Brother and sister faced each other. There was a tranquil challenge in Thurston's full and steady gaze.
She recoiled a little. "I—well, yes—I did intend to go," she replied, below her breath, and actually stammering.
"What is your reason for going," he questioned, "if you despise and dislike her so?"
She threw back her head; her self-possession had returned, and with it a stately indignation.
Thurston broke into a hard laugh.