Festing smiled rather grimly. “I dragged the brute about the floor and threw him into the street. I don't know that it was a logical denial of the slander, but it was what the others expected and I had to indulge them.”
“And that was how you cut your forehead?”
“Yes,” said Festing, and for a few moments Helen tried to regulate her thoughts.
She felt shocked and disgusted, but did not mean to let her anger master her, because there were matters that must be carefully weighed. Indeed, it was something of a relief to dwell upon the first. To hear of Festing's thrashing her traducer had given her a pleasant thrill, but all the same she vaguely disapproved. He had not taken a dignified line and had really made things worse. It was humiliating to feel that she had been the subject of a vulgar poolroom brawl.
“Could you not have found a better way to silence him?” she asked.
“I could not. I was afraid you wouldn't like it, but you must try to understand that I was forced to play up to local sentiment. English notions of what is becoming don't hold good here; you can't stop a man like Wilkinson with a supercilious look. If I'd let the thing go, the boys would have thought his statements true, and the tale is bad enough to deal with.”
Helen gave him a steady look, but her color was high and her face was hard.
“But you know it isn't true!”
“Of course,” said Festing, with quiet scorn. “All that the brute insinuated is absolutely false. Bob's a fool, but he knows you, and I'm beginning to think he's a little in love with his wife.”
“Ah,” said Helen, “I knew you knew. But I felt I must hear you say so.”