“Yes.”
“Didn’t you promise me you wouldn’t?”
“Yes.”
“Then—then—what—”
“I broke my promise. I had to. When I heard the things they were saying about him I—I had to find out. So I went, that is all. I didn’t learn all I hoped to learn. He wouldn’t tell me why Seymour was there on that road that night, although I think he knew, or could guess. I suppose—it would be like him—he would not tell tales concerning another fellow. But he did tell me of his talk with you and—and....” Her voice broke. “Oh, Uncle,” she finished, desperately, “how could you!”
The misery in her tone, the tears in her eyes, her sudden plea for understanding, did not move him. At another time they would have done so, but not then. He offered no excuses. He did not attempt denial. The fact that she had gone, alone and in spite of his orders and her promise, to see Griffin was sufficient. All his delusions, all his conceit in the triumph of his scheming, all his silly, easy confidence that her interest in Elisha Cook’s grandson was a thing of the dead past—all these were blown away like a summer fog by that one disclosure. She had paid no attention to his wishes, his commands—she had defied him—him, Foster Townsend. If she had been a man he would have knocked her down.
“What!—” he shouted. “What’s that? How could I? How could you, you better say! Going there to see the scamp the whole town is talking about! Mixing your name up with his! Letting them talk about you now! Why—why—”
She lifted a hand. “Don’t!” she begged. “Please don’t!”
“Don’t! Don’t what? Did you expect I was going to hear a thing like that from you and—and grin? Did you expect I was going to purr and say I liked it! You—you, by the Lord! the girl I swore by and depended on—a Townsend, too—waiting until I was out of the way and then crawling on your hands and knees after that—oh, what shall I call him? The young—”
Again she stopped him. “Don’t! Don’t!” she cried once more. “You mustn’t say those things.... Uncle Foster, I am going to marry him.”