"I should take care to have some one always with me," he replied slowly—"and I should appeal instantly for protection, if he made the slightest attempt to intrude."
"And suffer him to circulate some horrible tale about me?"
"You have to chance that," Pendleton answered. "If he does, your friends will then be in a position to make such a protest as he will be apt to remember."
"Meanwhile, the harm will be done," she replied.
"If he can harm you," he observed. "You're a trifle too sensitive of your position, dear. It is not what it was—when you returned. Surely your word is equal to Porshinger's."
"Many will be glad to believe his story—whatever it is," she protested. "You see, I was friendly with him—and my past is—not in my favor."
"Those who believe it, you won't any longer want to know; nor need you care for them—you will be well rid of them. And your past is past; don't let it worry you, sweetheart. You're obsessed by it."
"I'm afraid I don't know just what obsessed means, Montague," she said, with a wan little smile.
"You attach undue importance to it; you've—got it on the brain, so to speak," he explained.
"I see," she said slowly. "Maybe I have it on the brain—but it's very natural under all the circumstances—and when I'm trying to live down my past. It's dreadfully hard, Montague, dreadfully hard for a woman to live down her past. You men can never know how hard it is—you have no past."