"You make it harder than it is, Stephanie," he said, "though I think that no one knows it except me—you conceal your feelings marvellously well."
"Thank you, Montague—I have tried to hide them from this cold and heartless world we call Society. And I have been indiscreet, I know. Striving to appear indifferent, I overdid the part. It was foolish of me to encourage Porshinger, even a little. I ought to have realized what a dangerous man he is—I ought to have been warned by you, instead of showing anger at your well meant and entirely justifiable protest. I have only myself to blame—which makes it all the harder."
"Nonsense! dear.—You did what you thought was right, and because you thought it was right—and because you feared lest Porshinger would injure me. Now we are going to stand together—and let Lorraine help you, if he will—without any obligation on your part," he added, as she made a vehement gesture of protest. "We shall see whether he has sufficient manhood to defend his wife if Porshinger starts his slanderous tales."
"Suppose his first tale is of—us—and what he saw on the Criss-Cross piazza?" she remarked.
"I will deny it."
"And what—shall I do?"
"You need do nothing—except preserve the dignity of silence."
"But if my husband hearkens to the story, and demands an explanation from us both?"
"Still the same course for us," Pendleton replied:—"You indignant silence—me denial."