"Everybody in the neighbourhood believes anything bad, about him—and us!" cried Delia.
"Don't, for Heaven's sake, couple yourself, and the man—together!" said Winnington, flushing with anger. "I know nothing about him, when you first arrived here. Mr. Lathrop didn't matter twopence to me before. Now he does matter."
"Why?" Delia's eyes were held to his, fascinated.
"Simply because I care—I care a great deal—what happens to you," he said quietly, after a pause. "Naturally, I must care."
Delia looked away, and began twisting her black sash into knots.
"Bankruptcy—is not exactly a crime."
"Oh, so you knew that farther fact about him? But of course—it is the rest that matters. Since we spoke of this before, I have seen the judge who tried the case in which this man figured. I hate speaking of it in your presence, but you force me. He told me it was one of the worst he had ever known—a case for which there was no defence or excuse whatever."
"Why must I believe it?" cried Delia impetuously. "It's a man's judgment! The woman may have been—Gertrude says she was—horribly unhappy and ill-treated. Yet nothing could be proved—enough to free her. Wait till we have women judges—and women lawyers—then you'll see!"
He laughed indignantly—though not at all inclined to laugh. And what seemed to him her stubborn perversity drove him to despair.
"In this case, if there had been a woman judge, I am inclined to think it would have been a good deal worse for the people concerned. At least I hope so. Don't try to make me believe, Miss Delia, that women are going to forgive treachery and wickedness more easily than men!"