Fran's eyes shone brightly. "Oh, they were not," she agreed, "they were not at all what you would call respectable. They were not religious."
"So I was told," he resumed, a little uncertainly. "There was no way for me to find her."
"Her?" cried Fran, "you keep saying 'her'. Do you mean—?"
He hesitated. "She had chosen her part—to live with those people—I left her to lead the life that pleased her. That's why I never went back to Springfield again. I've taken up my life in my own way, and left her—your friend—"
"Yes, call her that," cried Fran, holding up her head. "I am proud of that title. I glory in it. And in this house—"
"I have made my offer," he interrupted decidedly. "I'll provide for you anywhere but in this house."
Fran regarded him with somber intensity. "I've asked for a home with you on the grounds that your wife was my best friend in all the world, and because I am homeless. You refuse. I suppose that's natural. I have to guess at your feelings because I haven't been raised among 'respectable' people. I'm sorry you don't like it, but you're going to provide for me right here. For a girl, I'm pretty independent; folks that don't like me are welcome to all the enjoyment they get out of their dislike. I'm here to stay. Suppose you look on me as a sort of summer crop. I enjoyed hearing you. sing, to-night—
"'We reap what we sow,
We reap what we sow'—
I see you remember."
He shuddered at her mocking holy things. "Hush! What are you saying? The past is cut off from my life. I have been pardoned, and I will not have anybody forcing that past upon me."