Postscriptum: Percival is an egregious young ass.
J. T.
Channing finished the letter, adding to it a heartfelt if unspoken "Amen!"
"Well?" asked Mrs. Kildare. "What have you to say, please? Do you regard Jacqueline as merely a charming child?"
"No," he was impelled to answer. "Not—not now."
"Ah! Not now." Kate's lips set grimly, but she continued in a very quiet voice, "Have you anything to say, perhaps? I do not wish to be unfair."
Channing had a great deal to say, but he found some difficulty in saying it. He found some difficulty in meeting Mrs. Kildare's eyes. He felt more and more like a schoolboy who is about to receive a well-deserved whipping.—And then, quite suddenly, he recalled the past career of this outraged mother, with her righteous indignation; and fluency returned to him.
"My dear lady, it's all such a tempest in a tea-pot! My uncle's an old fogy. But you're a woman of the world—you will understand.—I made a fool of myself in that affair, of course. Still, who would have supposed the woman wouldn't play the game? She's an old hand, an ex-chorus girl, and all that—Fay Lanham—any one can tell you about her. I don't know what got into her, except that I'm making a good deal of money nowadays, and I suppose she's ready to settle down. It was all quite understood, I assure you—"
Mrs. Kildare suddenly rose, and he saw for the first time how tall she was. "I am not and have never been a woman of the world, but I know men, if that is what you mean. And I know"—her voice cut like a whip—"that when these things occur among men of honor, at least the names of their victims are not mentioned."
He stared at her in genuine surprise. Chivalry in connection with Fay Lanham!—the combination was fantastic. "Oh, but—professionals!" he murmured. "I assure you she was no 'victim'—not as much a victim, perhaps, as myself."