Mrs. Hastings thought that the girl’s scorn and disgust were perfectly natural, even though, as it happened, they were not quite warranted.
“In the first place,” she suggested, “I think you had better read this note.”
Agatha took the note, and there was light enough left to show that the blood had crept into her face when she laid it down again. For almost a minute she sat very still.
“It is a great relief to know that I was wrong—in one respect, but you must not think I hated this girl because Gregory had preferred her to me,” she said at last. “When the first shock had passed, there was an almost horrible satisfaction in feeling that he had released me—at any cost. I suppose I shall always be ashamed of that.”
She broke off a moment, and her voice was very steady when she went on again:
“Still, what Sproatly says does not alter the case so much after all. It can’t free me of my responsibility. If I hadn’t driven him, Gregory would not have gone to her.”
“You consider that in itself a very dreadful thing?”
Agatha looked at Mrs. Hastings with suddenly lifted head. “Of course,” she answered. “Can you doubt it?”
Mrs. Hastings laughed, though there was a little gleam in her eyes, for this was an opportunity for which she had been waiting.
“Then,” she said, “you spoke like an Englishwoman—of station—just out from the Old Country—but I’m going to try to disabuse you of one impression. Sally, to put it crudely, is quite good enough for Gregory. In fact, if she had been my daughter I’d have kept him away from her. To begin with, once you strip Gregory of his little surface graces, and his clean English intonation, how does he compare with the men you meet out here? What does his superiority consist of? Is he truer or kinder than you have found most of them to be? Has he a finer courage, or a more resolute endurance—a greater capacity for labor, or a clearer knowledge of the calling by which he makes his living?”