“Well, send for the police,” said Mr. Ritchie, but he regretted his words when he saw her eyes blaze.
“Shame on you!” she cried. “The state he’s in!”
“Well, now, see here,” said Ritchie. “I guess you don’t know what’s the matter with him. He’s not sick; he’s just—”
“Hush up!” she interrupted fiercely. “I guess I do know! It isn’t his fault—he got in with bad comp’ny.”
“How do you know?” he inquired.
“I do know,” she replied firmly. “Never you mind how! And I’m going to see he gets taken care of till he’s all well again.”
All this did not contribute to Mr. Ritchie’s happiness. Wasn’t it just like a woman, he thought, to be captious and haughty to a devoted young man of blameless life, and an angel of compassion to this unknown profligate?
Nevertheless, in spite of his jealous alarm and his pain and his distrust, it was Ritchie’s sure instinct to behave generously. Heaven knows where he got his magnanimity. He hadn’t learned it in the mean and sordid little home of his childhood. He hadn’t been taught it in school, and it had been a part of his nature long before he had read a line of those improving little books.
His sallow face flushed.
“Well!” he said. “I’ll take him home with me.”