“That's what I said. That's what I used to think. It's this Scarford that's doin' it. It's this Scarford and the society crowd we've got in with. Annette Black—Barney Phelps's wife—is in society, and so's the Lake woman and that Canby piano pounder and that Dusante—my Godfreys! you ought to have seen her, John! She was the brazen thing. Dancin' around! And all hands sittin' lookin' at her as if she was a Sunday School. Everybody! Serena and Gertie and that Holway man and all. And Gertie up and says she might like to dance that way. She! And Cousin Percy laughin' because she said it.”
“Hold on! Wait a minute, Captain. I never saw you so excited. What about this Cousin Percy of yours? He's living here with you, I know that; but what sort of a chap is he? And Holway—who is Holway?”
Daniel went on to explain who Holway was. Also he spoke of Mr. Hungerford and his ways and his intimacy with the family, particularly Gertrude. For weeks the captain had been wanting to talk to someone about these things and, now that he had that opportunity, he made the most of it. He spoke of his own loneliness, and of Serena's infatuation for society, of Gertrude's coming and the great change in her, of the gay life in Scarford, and of his daughter's apparent love for it. He gave his opinion of Hungerford and of Holway, the latter's friend. When John asked questions which implied a belief that the situation was not really as bad as the narrator thought it, Captain Dan, growing warmer and more anxious to justify himself, proceeded to make his statements stronger. He quoted instances to prove their truth. Serena was crazy on the subjects of Chapter and Chapter politics and fashion and money and society, and Gertrude was getting to be even worse. It wasn't any use to talk to her. He had tried. He had told her she was engaged and ought to be more careful. He wasn't the only one who thought so. Barney Black had said the same thing. He quoted from Mr. Black's conversation.
John Doane listened, at first with the smile of the disbeliever, then with more and more uneasiness. He trusted Gertrude, he believed in her, she was not a flirt, but if these stories were true—if they were true—he could not understand. He asked more questions and the answers were as non-understandable. Altogether, Captain Dan, with the best intentions in the world, and with the happiness of his daughter and John uppermost in his mind, succeeded in laying a mine which might wreck that happiness altogether.
At last something—perhaps the expression on his visitor's face—caused him to feel that he might have said too much. He hastened to rectify the mistake.
“Of course you mustn't think Gertie ain't all right, far's you're concerned, John,” he said. “She is—I—I'm dead sure she is. But, you see—you see—You do see, don't you, John?”
Mr. Doane did not answer. He seemed to be thinking hard.
“You see, John, don't you?” repeated Captain Dan.
“Yes, I suppose I do.”
“And you know Gertie's all right—at heart, I mean? You mustn't be jealous, nor anything of that kind.”