"Not for a great while," responded Abbott, with the obstinacy of a good conscience wrongfully accused.
The secretary no longer held him under her foot—the last icicle-prick of her tongue had liberated him.
"Only since Fran came, I am sure," she said, feeling him escaping. She looked at him with something like scorn, inspired by righteous indignation that such as he could be influenced by Fran. That look wrought havoc with the halo he had so long blinked at, as it swung above her head.
"Does that mean," he inquired, with a steady look, "that you imagine
Fran has led me into bad habits?"
"I trust the habits are not fixed," rather contemptuously. "I hardly think you mean to desert the church, and lose your position at school, for the sake of—of that Fran."
"I hardly think so, either," returned Abbott. "And now I'd better go to my school-work."
"Fran is imprudent," said Mrs. Gregory, in distress, "but her heart is pure gold. I don't know what all this means, but when I have had a talk with her—"
"Don't go, Professor Ashton," interposed Grace, as he started up, "until you advise me. Shall I tell Mr. Gregory? Or shall I conceal it on the assurances that it will never happen again?"
Abbott seated himself with sudden persuasiveness. "Conceal it, Miss
Grace, conceal it!" he urged.
"If you will frankly explain what happened—here before Mrs. Gregory, so she can have the real truth, we will never betray the secret. But if you can not tell everything, I shall feel it my duty—I don't know how Mrs. Gregory feels about it—but I must tell Mr. Gregory."