“Well, is it what Mrs. Shortman says?”
The girl handed it back with a blush.
“It's perfect, of course, in itself, but I think Mrs. Shortman is right. It might offend some people.”
Gregory went quickly to the window, threw it up, and stood gazing at the sky. Both women looked at his back.
Mrs. Shortman said gently:
“I would only just alter it like this, from after 'country homes'. 'whether they do not pity and forgive this poor girl in a great city, without friends, without money, almost without clothes, and exposed to all the craft of one of those fiends in human form who prey upon our womankind,' and just stop there.”
Gregory returned to the table.
“Not 'forgive,'.rdquo; he said, “not 'forgive'.”
Mrs. Shortman raised her pen.
“You don't know,” she said, “what a strong feeling there is. Mind, it has to go to numbers of parsonages, Mr. Vigil. Our principle has always been to be very careful. And you have been plainer than usual in stating the case. It's not as if they really could put themselves in her position; that's impossible. Not one woman in a hundred could, especially among those who live in the country and have never seen life. I'm a squire's daughter myself.”