“I had rather see a son of mine dead than married to a woman like that,” he said.
“Why, Mr. Ruggles,” she exclaimed passionately, addressing him with interest for the first time, “what do you know about me? What? What? You have seen me dance and heard me sing.”
And he interrupted her.
“Ten times, and you are a bully dancer and a bully singer, but you do other things than dance and sing. There is not a man living that would want to have his mother dress that way.”
She controlled a smile. “Never mind that. People’s opinions are very different about that sort of thing. You have seen me at dinner with your boy, as you call him, and you can’t say that I did anything but ask him to help the poor. I haven’t led Dan on. I have tried to show him just what you are making me go through now.”
If she acted well and danced well, it was hard for her to talk. She was evidently under strong emotion and it needed her control not to burst into tears and lose her chance.
“Of course, I know the things you have heard. Of course, I know what is said about me”—and she stopped.
Ruggles didn’t press her any further; he didn’t ask her if the things were true. Looking at her as he did, watching her as he did, there was in him a feeling so new, so troubling that he found himself more anxious to protect her than to bring her to justice.
“There are worse, far worse women than I am, Mr. Ruggles. I will never do Dan any harm.”
Here her visitor leaned forward and put one of his big hands lightly over one of hers, patted it a moment, and said: