"She is—beyond a doubt she is; but still—"
"But still," said Winifred, with a vanishing smile, "you naturally have more sympathy with her folly than I have." (At this moment Winifred had forgotten the charge of lack of sympathy which she had brought against the man before her three months ago.) "The question is, of course, what is to be done with her?"
Flint felt an immense sense of relief at Winifred's practical words, which seemed to remove the situation from the element of tragedy to rather sordid commonplace.
"That's it exactly," he said helplessly. "I thought of taking her to Nora Costello."
"That would not do at all," said Winifred, [Pg 336] positively. "I am disappointed in you. If you had trusted to my proffer of friendship yesterday, you would have brought her to me."
"I—I did," hesitated Flint; "she is in the rear room there. But the more I think of it, the more I feel as if I could not have her here near you. She is—"
"You need not tell me what Tilly Marsden is," Winifred interrupted. "I know her of old. She is silly and pert, and cheaply sensational; but she is not vicious, and if she were, our duty would be the same. You may leave her with Miss Standish and me. We will take care of her, and try to make something of her."
"I suppose I ought to say 'Good-by' to her?"
"By no means. Go, and leave her to me."
"Have you no word for me at parting?"