He refrained. But after a moment he added, still more gravely—"And I do protest—most strongly!—against the influence upon you of the lady you have taken to live with you!"
Delia made a vehement movement.
"She is my friend!—my dearest friend!" she said, in a shaky voice.
"And I believe in her, and admire her with all my heart!"
"I know—and I am sorry. Her speech this evening—all the latter part of it—was the speech of an Anarchist. And the first half was a tissue of misstatements. I happen to know something about the facts she dealt with."
"Of course you take a different view!"
"I know," he said, quietly—a little sternly. "Miss Marvell either does not know, or she wilfully misrepresents."
"You can't prove it!"
"I think I could. And as to that man—Mr. Lathrop—but you know what I think."
They both fell silent. Through all his own annoyance and disgust, Winnington was sympathetically conscious of what she too must be feeling—chafed and thwarted, at every turn, by his legal power over her actions, and by the pressure of his male will. He longed to persuade her, convince her, soothe her; but what chance for it, under the conditions she had chosen for her life?
The motor drew up at the door of the Abbey, and Winnington turned on the light.