“If I must satisfy your curiosity, Mr. Barfoot, I had better tell you at once that the subject of our difference is the girl you mentioned. Not very long ago she tried to persuade your cousin to receive her again—to give her lessons at the place in Great Portland Street, as before she disgraced herself. Miss Barfoot, with too ready good-nature, was willing to do this, but I resisted. It seemed to me that it would be a very weak and wrong thing to do. At the time she ended by agreeing with me. Now that the girl has killed herself, she throws the blame upon my interference. We had a painful conversation, and I don’t think we can continue to live together.”
Barfoot listened with gratification. It was much to have compelled Rhoda to explain herself, and on such a subject.
“Nor even to work together?” he asked.
“It is doubtful.”
Rhoda still moved forward, but very slowly, and without impatience.
“You will somehow get over this difficulty, I am sure. Such friends as you and Mary don’t quarrel like ordinary unreasonable women. Won’t you let me be of use?”
“How?” asked Rhoda with surprise.
“I shall make my cousin see that she is wrong.”
“How do you know that she is wrong?”
“Because I am convinced that you must be right. I respect Mary’s judgment, but I respect yours still more.”