“Well,” said May, at last, “why don’t you speak—though you need not, if you are only going to scold.”
“Why have you come to tell me this now—this disgraceful story of deceit and shame?”
“Do you wish to send me back broken-hearted, Claire—crying my eyes out so that Frank is sure to know?”
“I say, why have you come to me, May?”
“Because I am in dreadful trouble at last, and don’t know what to do. I daren’t communicate with those people or go near the cottage, for I’m sure Frank is watching me and suspecting something.”
“You will have to confess everything, May; he loves you and will forgive you.”
“But he doesn’t love me, and he never would forgive me,” cried May excitedly. “You can’t think how we quarrel. He’s a horribly jealous little monster, and I hate him.”
“May!”
“I don’t care: I do. Now, look here, Claire, it’s of no use for you to boggle about it, because you must help me. If it were to come out it would be social ruin for us all, and I’ve had quite enough poverty, thank you. I dare not go and see the little thing again, and if some one does not take the Miggleses some money regularly, likely as not they’ll turn disagreeable and begin to talk. I shall bring you money, of course, and as some one must go and see that my poor darling is properly cared for, why you must.”
“I?”