“That statement seems pretty comprehensive,” said Mr. Levinger, after a pause; “and, to be frank, I don’t see any way round it. I am to understand, then, that Mr. Rock is so distasteful to you that you decline to have anything to do with him?”
“Absolutely, sir: I detest Mr. Rock, and I can scarcely conceive any circumstances under which I would consent to marry him.”
“Well, Joan, I am sorry, because I think that the marriage would have been to your advantage; but this is a free country. Still, it is a pity—a great pity—especially, to be candid, as I have heard your name pretty roughly handled of late;—in a way, indeed, that is likely to bring disgrace upon it.”
“You are forgetting, sir, that I have no name to disgrace. What I do, or leave undone, can matter to nobody. I have only myself to think of.”
“Really this is a most unfortunate tone for any young woman to adopt; still, I did hope that, if you considered nobody else, you would at least consider your own reputation. Perhaps you know to what I allude?”
“Yes, sir; I know.”
“Might I ask you if there is any truth in it?”
Then for the first time Joan lied. So far as she was aware, she had never before told a deliberate falsehood; but now she had entered on a path in which falsehood of necessity becomes a weapon of self-defence, to be used at all times and places. She did not pause to think; she knew that she must protect herself and her lover from this keen-eyed, plausible man, who was searching out their secret for some purpose of his own.
“No, sir,” she said boldly, looking him in the face, “there is no truth. I nursed Sir Henry Graves, and I tried to do my duty by him, and of course people talked about us. For years past I never could speak to a man but what they talked about me in Bradmouth.”
Mr. Levinger shrugged his shoulders.