"You think!" she uttered in mocking scorn. "You've posed as a sort of God's fool—but what you are is the devil's tool."
"Take care, Gertrude," I warned her. "You might say something that you will regret even more."
She waved me contemptuously away.
"I'll say this," she returned in level tones, seating herself and clenching her hands in an effort at control—but in reality she was beginning a new offensive. "You'd better go home, Ranny, and make up your mind to send that girl away. All men are rotten. But it's because I thought you were different that—that—" she did not finish, but added: "And to have you gathering in girls from the gutter—"
"Stop!" I cried, "I won't hear another word," and turned away as if to go, not trusting myself to say more.
"Come back!" she called, jumping from the sofa. "Come back and listen: Either you send that girl away or I'll have nothing more to do with you. Is that understood?"
I laughed at her mirthlessly.
"Choose between her and me," she uttered with the touch of melodrama that few women seem to escape.
"Don't be theatrical," I told her, now more in control of myself. "That girl makes it possible for me to bring up Laura's children. She is no more to me than any of the others. But however that may be, she stays—understand that, please, Gertrude: she stays!"
"Then you've chosen?" she demanded in livid stupefaction.