“Why not?” he asked.
“Oh! there’s nothing exactly against her—except of course, the connexion. Her father embezzled money and went to prison. He was in dad’s firm. We knew her quite well at one time. But it was an awful disgrace; one couldn’t go on knowing them. You must acknowledge it is impossible for us. Mother wouldn’t like us to talk to her.”
“No,” he said; “I don’t suppose she would.”
“You didn’t know about her father, of course,” Rosie said.
“Oh! yes, I did. She told me herself—not the details, but the bald facts.”
“Really! I’m surprised at that. A man doesn’t need to be so particular, perhaps; but it wouldn’t do for us to be seen talking to her.”
“My friendship dates since her misfortunes,” he explained. “I can’t believe that I could have respected her more had I known her in her prosperous days. The fact that her father was imprisoned, apart from my sympathy with her on that account, doesn’t affect me. I can’t stay now, or I could talk to you for an hour on the immorality of injustice. I’ll come out to your place some day, and we’ll take it for a subject for debate.”
“The things you say!” Rosie exclaimed, divided between resentment and an earnest desire to prevent a breach.
They parted on less cordial terms than usual, feeling it necessary to maintain their displeasure. As May observed, Mr Matheson should be made aware that he must not obtrude his common acquaintances upon them.
“As long as he keeps his shop-girls in the background I suppose it’s all right,” she said.