Mr. Ricardo made a sweeping, crushing gesture. "That, surely, settles the controversy. He will hardly be able to answer that, I think."
Christine stirred, and opened her eyes, and smiled a little.
"I could not answer it, at any rate. It sounds very clever." She took the paper from him and held it to the light, and Robert turned, hoping that now he would really go. "But—but I didn't quite understand—have I lost the place?—this is by E. T. Richards."
Then Robert saw an astonishing thing. Suddenly Mr. Ricardo seemed to shrivel—to cower back into himself. His fierce, triumphant energy had gone as at a blasting touch of magic. He looked ashamed and broken.
"A nom de plume—a nom de guerre, rather, Miss Forsyth—you understand—in my opinion—the scholastic profession—the stronghold of the worst bigotry and prejudice—for myself I should not care—I have always wanted to come out into the open—but I have a sister—poor girl!—a long, sad illness—for her sake—I can't afford——"
Christine folded the paper gently as though she were afraid of hurting it.
"Of course. It would be unwise—unnecessary. Why should one sacrifice oneself to fight something that doesn't exist?"
He clenched his fists.
"One must fight error, Miss Forsyth."
"At any rate it's brave of you to try—to do what you think is right." And now it seemed she was trying to find something that would comfort him—just as she had once given Robert peppermint balls when he had hurt himself. "If ever you feel inclined, won't you come again—and read to us?"