"It is preposterous," Guilford said shortly.
"But you don't—understand!" I cried, turning to him pleadingly. "You don't know what it is to feel as I feel about those lovers—those people who had no happiness in this world—and are haunted and tormented by curiosity in their very graves!—don't you suppose I want to do the thing you and mother want me to do? Of course, I do! I want this—this new piano—and another brown tweed skirt that doesn't bag at the knees—and I want—so many things!"
"Then why in the name of——" he began.
"Because I won't!" I told him flatly. "Call it conscience—fancy, or what you will!—I have those two people in my power—their secrets are right here in my hands! And I'm not going to give them away!"
"Grace, you a-maze me!" mother sobbed.
But Guilford rose tranquilly and reached for his hat.
"Any woman who has a conscience like that ought to cauterize it—with a curling-iron—and get rid of it," he observed dryly.
CHAPTER IV
THE QUALITY OF MERCY
That night I went to my bedroom and pulled open the top of an old-fashioned desk standing in the corner. Except for this desk there was not another unnecessary piece of furniture in the apartment, for I like a cell-like place to sleep. I consider that fresh air and a clear conscience ought to be the chief adjuncts—for a cluttered-up, luxurious bedroom always reminds me of Camille—and tuberculosis.
"And all this fuss about a few little faded wisps of paper!"