"Certainly not. He brought word that a sick friend needed me, and left immediately afterward."
"And you have not seen him since?"
"No." Her denial rang out emphatically. "Craig," she appealed, "what is the meaning of this catechism? I have been with Amy ever since I left the house. She is in great trouble. It is a terrible story."
"It is indeed," struck in Julie. "Do you swallow it, Craig? Can anybody! Perhaps now you will begin to use the reasoning powers which your infatuation for this adventuress has clouded. How could you ever have trusted her! Wasn't the bare fact of the reformatory enough?"
"Craig!" Appeal, reproach, anguish, all blended in that bitter cry.
Atwood disclaimed responsibility with a gesture.
"Your mother," he said.
"Yes; your mother," Julie echoed. "Before she sat ten minutes in this room she had told all she knew—do you understand me?—all she knew! I was your friend till then. I don't pretend I was not cut to the heart by Craig's mad marriage. I would have given my right hand to prevent it. Hadn't I seen you before you ever entered his studio? Didn't I know how vulgar your associates were? Perhaps your 'Amy' was the drunken little fool who created a scene in the restaurant where I made your acquaintance? But I tried to put that out of mind when I accepted the marriage. I took you into my own home; I hoped to school you to fill your new place in life worthily."
"And have I not?" Jean interpolated proudly. "Have I shamed you or him?"
Julie scorned reply.