“Hildegarde Mar”—with an air of defending her daughter from Cheviot’s low opinion of her—“is a person of considerable dignity of character.”
“Do you think it necessary to tell me that?”
“Singularly enough, yes. And to add that I who know her best, have never yet seen her show any sign of not being able to take proper care of herself.”
“Under ordinary conditions. But, as I told the boys—”
“A woman who can’t take care of herself under conditions out of the ordinary, can’t take care of herself at all.”
Again Cheviot opened his lips, but Mrs. Mar, grasping the arms of her rocking-chair, indoctrinated the purblind man. “The truth is, that a girl in good health, who hasn’t been kept in cotton, and who hasn’t been seared by men’s going on as you’re doing, is far abler to cope with life than—than—” She pulled herself up an instant, seeming to feel that after all man is hardly worthy to know the whole truth upon these high themes. But she thought extremely well of Cheviot, or she would never have permitted him to speak to her as he had done. And he loved Hildegarde. “The truth is,” she went on, “Hildegarde is quite right about this. There’s no reason why she shouldn’t go half as strong as the reason why she should.”
“The reason! You think it’s on account of Mr. Mar. It isn’t. Bella will tell you Hildegarde wants to go on this degrading journey. She said everybody had traveled about and seen the world but her. She had never been farther than Seattle to see Madeleine Somebody.”
“That’s true.”
“You see! Hildegarde is full of curiosity about—things.”