The Belfry

by May Sinclair

I saw him wince at that.

"That's how it strikes him?" he said.

I answered that that was how it would strike most people.

"I'm putting the slur on my daughter, am I?"

I was pitiless. I said, Certainly he was. If he persisted.

Then, after telling me that I had hit him hard, he fell back on another line of defence. He owed it to his priesthood not to condone his daughter's conduct.

"All the more—all the more, Furnival, if she is my daughter."

I said he owed it to his priesthood to stand up for an innocent girl, even if she was his daughter. I couldn't see anything in it but her innocence—her amazing innocence. I only wished I had his chance of proving it.

He shook his head. "That's it, my dear fellow. We can't prove it."

I said at least we could believe in it and act on our belief.