Cornel looked round wonderingly.
“Temper,” said Pacey shortly. “Said he couldn’t contain himself; that he was mad to let you come to see Armstrong; and at last I persuaded him to go back, and said I’d see you safely to the hotel.”
“And do you think I was doing wrong to go, Mr Pacey?” she said, turning upon him her candid eyes.
“No: I stood out here feeling more religious than I have these twenty years. Ah! you don’t understand. Never mind. Tell me you’ve brought him to his senses.”
Corners brow contracted, and she shook her head.
“Oh, but you should have done, my dear,” cried Pacey angrily. “You’ve been too hard upon him. Try and forgive him just a little bit. It’s life and death, ruin and destruction to as fine a lad as ever stepped.”
“Yes,” said Cornel piteously.
“Then you shouldn’t have been so stern with him, you know. He has been a blackguard; he deserves something. I am more bitter with him than ever, but, my dear—don’t flinch because I speak so familiarly: I’m old enough to be your father—I say, if there is to be no forgiveness, there’ll be very few of us men in heaven, I’m afraid, for we’re a bad lot, my child, a very bad lot, though I don’t think it’s all our fault.”
Cornel looked up at him again, with her nether lip quivering.
“That’s right,” said Pacey; “I don’t know much about women, but that means being sorry for him just a little. Now, look here: don’t you think you and I might go back together, and I leave you with him five minutes while you bring him to his knees, and then promise to forgive him some day?”