"I do not hate you, Hetty."
"In heaven's name, what do you call it?"
"Justification. Listen to me now. I am saying this for your good sense to seize and appreciate. Would it be right in me to allow you to marry any other man, knowing all that I know? There is but one man you can in justice marry: the one who can repair the wreck that his own blood created. Not Brandon Booth, nor any man save Leslie Wrandall. He is the man who must pay."
"I do not intend to marry," said Hetty.
"But Leslie will marry some one, and I intend that it shall be you. He shall marry the ex-chorus girl, the artist's model, the—the prostitute! Wait! Don't fly at me like that! Don't assume that look of virtuous horror! Let me say what I have to say. This much of your story shall they know, and no more. They will be proud of you!"
Hetty's eyes were blazing. "You use that name—you call me THAT—and yet you have kissed me, caressed me—loved me!" she cried hoarse with passion.
"He will ask you to-night for the second time. You will accept him. That is all."
"You must take back what you have just said to me—of me,—Sara Wrandall. You must unsay it! You must beg my pardon for THAT!"
"I draw no line between mistress and prostitute."
"But I—"