'With that person?'
He could not but look the withering disgust of the modern world in a conservative gentleman who has been lured to go with it a little way, only to be bitten. 'I decline to believe it,' he said with forcible sound.
'She is married,' was the rather shameless, exasperating answer.
'Married or not!' he cried, and murmured: 'I have borne—. These may be Mr. Dartrey Fenellan's ideas; they are not mine. I have—Something at least is due to me: Ask any lady:—there are clergymen, I know, clergymen who are for uplifting—quite right, but not associating:—to call one of them a friend! Ask any lady, any! Your mother . . .'
'I beg you will not distress my mother,' said Nesta.
'I beg to know whether this correspondence is to continue?' said Dudley.
'All my life, if I do not feel dishonoured by it.'
'You are.' He added hastily: 'Counsels of prudence—there is not a lady living who would tell you otherwise. At all events, in public opinion, if it were known—and it would certainly be known,—a lady, wife or spinster, would suffer—would not escape the—at least shadow of defilement from relationship, any degree of intimacy with . . . hard words are wholesome in such a case: "touch pitch," yes! My sense is coherent.'
'Quite,' said Nesta.
'And you do not agree with me?'