"You do not think that gentleman's company desirable for my brother, I presume," she said with a smile so lustreless that it seemed bitter.
"He won't do him any harm—at least I do not think you need fear it."
"Why not? No one in your profession can think his opinions harmless, and certainly he will not suppress them."
"A man with such a weight on his soul as your brother carries, will not be ready to fancy it lightened by having lumps of lead thrown upon it. An easy mind may take a shroud on its shoulders for wings, but when trouble comes and it wants to fly, then it knows the difference. Leopold will not be misled by Mr. Bascombe."
Helen grew paler. She would have him misled—so far as not to betray himself.
"I am far more afraid of your influence than of his," added the curate.
"What bad influence do you suppose me likely to exercise?" asked
Helen, with a cold smile.
"The bad influence of wishing him to act upon your conscience instead of his own."
"Is my conscience then a worse one than Leopold's?" she asked, but as if she felt no interest in the answer.
"It is not his, and that is enough. His own and no other can tell him what he ought to do."