"Because I so cordially hate it too."
"I would not publish it if I were in your place," said Edith; "it may do harm. It is against the woman who is struggling so bravely. It turns her noblest feelings into ridicule. Why do you write such things, Florence?"
"One cannot help one's self; you know that," replied Florence.
"Rubbish! One can always help doing wrong. You have been queer all through. I cannot pretend to understand you. But there, as Tom admires it so much, I suppose it must go into the paper. Will you put it into an envelope, and I will post it?"
Florence did so. She directed the envelope to the editor, and Edith took it out with her.
As she was leaving the room, she turned to Florence and said: "Try and make your next thing more healthy. I hope to goodness very few people will read this; it is bad from first to last."
She ran downstairs. Just as she was about to drop the little packet into the pillar-box, she glanced at her watch.
"I shall have time to go and see Tom. I don't like this thing," she said to herself. "Miss Aylmer ought not to write what will do direct harm. The person who has written this paper might well not believe in any God. I don't like it. It ought not to be published. I will speak to Tom about it. Some of the worst passages might at least be altered or expunged."
Edith hailed a hansom, was taken Citywards, and found herself in her brother's own private room shortly before he was finishing for the day.
"Here is the work of your precious protégée," she said, flinging the manuscript on Tom's desk. He took it up.