“Yes, even if I do not agree with you,” cried Gertrude, flushing up as if ready to defend her betrothed.
“Then, my dear, I do.”
“Tell me—what?”
“I am George Harrington’s guest, Gertrude; then I am the trusty friend of the girl I have known and loved ever since she was a child.”
“Yes, yes, indeed you are; I know that; only you are so bitter against George.”
“Gertie, my dear,” said the old lady, leading her to the couch and sitting down with old Harrington’s face seeming to smile down upon them, “if I feel bitter against George Harrington it is from love for you.”
“Yes, yes; but try not to be unjust. Think of the life he has been forced to lead.”
“I can think only of my little girl’s life that she will have to lead.”
“Why do you speak like this?” panted Gertrude, who looked like some frightened bird, ready to struggle to escape.
“I may be hard and unjust, my child, but I judge by what I see.”