"I'm not concerned for her; she's just a—woman," said Lorraine curtly.
"No—you're not concerned for her," replied Cameron slowly; "not concerned further than every man is concerned for a woman—that she gets fair play and a square deal."
"I'm perfectly willing for Society even to forget her past, if it wishes," said Lorraine. "I'm not vindictive. I'm indifferent. I'm done with her forever."
"You look at it in the proper spirit, old man," Cameron encouraged. "The time when men took the law into their own hands is past—with one exception, possibly. Your course is dignified, and thoroughly within your rights."
It had been easier than he had anticipated. Lorraine was steadier than he had thought—had borne the meeting with reasonable fortitude, considering the circumstances and the provocation. He leaned over and put his hand on his friend's shoulder.
"Old fellow," he said, "don't misunderstand me—but—don't let your feelings run away with you and say things to others that you will regret. You'll have plenty to try you—plenty to make you forget—plenty to anger you—but don't! don't! Bear in mind that this is an occasion when silence is more than golden."
"I've been fairly steady—don't you think?" Lorraine asked. "I came down here to avoid people—to get away. If I only could get away from myself it would be much better for me. My thoughts are what madden."
"Don't think," advised Cameron—"it may be difficult—but try it."
"I've got to try it—I've nothing else to do," was the bitter answer.
"Good!—you've the right idea!"