“Yes, yes,” I said hastily. “I think I—I suppose I understand your feelings. But—”
“There are no buts. Don't pretend there are. Do you think for one instant that I am begging, asking you for HELP? YOU—of all the world!”
This seemed personal enough, in spite of her protestations.
“But you never met me before,” I said, involuntarily.
“You never knew of my existence.”
She stamped her foot. “I knew of my American relatives,” she cried, scornfully. “I knew of them and their—Oh, I cannot say the word!”
“Your father told you—” I began. She burst out at me like a flame.
“My father,” she declared, “was a brave, kind, noble man. Don't mention his name to me. I won't have you speak of him. If it were not for his forbearance and self-sacrifice you—all of you—would be—would be—Oh, don't speak of my father! Don't!”
To my amazement and utter discomfort she sank into the chair and burst into tears. I was completely demoralized.
“Don't, Miss Morley,” I begged. “Please don't.”