“Something has vexed you,” he said. “What is the matter, Erica?”
“I had rather not tell you, father, it isn't anything much,” said Erica, casting down her eyes as if all at once the paving stones had become absorbingly interesting.
“I fancy I know already,” said Raeburn. “It is about your friend at the High School, is it not. I thought so. This afternoon I had a letter from her father.”
“What does he say? May I see it?” asked Erica.
“I tore it up,” said Raeburn, “I thought you would ask to see it, and the thing was really so abominably insolent that I didn't want you to. How did you hear about it?”
“Gertrude wrote me a note,” said Erica.
“At her father's dictation, no doubt,” said Raeburn; “I should know his style directly, let me see it.”
“I thought it was a pity to vex you, so I burned it,” said Erica.
Then, unable to help being amused at their efforts to save each other, they both laughed, though the subject was rather a sore one.
“It is the old story,” said Raeburn. “Life only, as Pope Innocent III benevolently remarked, 'is to be left to the children of misbelievers, and that only as an act of mercy.' You must make up your mind to bear the social stigma, child. Do you see the moral of this?”