“Come and sit down, May, and I'll tell you what happened yesterday. You shall judge for yourself whether I was right or wrong.”
He told her, point by point, what had occurred. May listened in silence till he stopped.
“But why did he resign? What could he gain by that?”
While she was speaking a thought crimsoned her cheeks; she had found the key to the enigma. Three nights before her father had talked of Washington and the East with a sort of exultation. At the time she had not paid much attention to this, though it had struck her as very different from his habit. Now the peculiarity of it confirmed her suspicion. In some way or other his action in resigning was connected with his inexplicable high spirits. A wave of indignation swept over her. Not that she felt the disgust which had sickened the Professor when he first heard of the traitorism. He had condemned Mr. Hutchings on the grounds of public morality; May's anger was aroused because her father had sought to deceive her; had tried by lying suggestion to take credit to himself, whereas—
“I wouldn't have believed it,” she murmured, with the passionate revolt of youth against mean deceit. “I can never forgive him or trust him again.”
“Don't let us talk of it any more, dear. I wouldn't have told you only I was afraid that he would try to separate us. Now I know you are on my side I wouldn't have you judge him harshly.”
“On your side,” she repeated, with a certain exaltation of manner. “On your side always in spite of everything. I feel for you more intensely than for myself.” In a lower voice and with hesitating speech she added: “Did he—did he tell you that he resigned on your account?”
He nodded.
“And you're not angry?”
“No.” He smiled slightly. “I understand men better now than I did yesterday. That's all.”