"Unkind to yourself, first of all," he said, firmly. "I must repeat Miss Delia, that this man is not a fit associate for you or any young girl. You do yourself harm by admitting him—by allowing him to see you alone—and you hurt your friends."
Delia paused a moment.
"Then you don't trust me at all?" she said at last, slowly.
Winnington melted. How pale she looked! He came forward and took her hand—
"Of course I trust you! But you don't know—you are too young. You confess you have some business with Mr. Lathrop that you can't tell me—your guardian; and you have no idea to what misrepresentations you expose yourself, or with what kind of a man you have to deal!"
Delia withdrew her hand, and dropped into a chair—her eyes on the carpet.
"I meant—" she said, and her tone trembled—"I did mean to have told you everything to-day."
"And now—now you can't?"
She made no reply, and in the silence he watched her closely. What could account for such an eclipse of all her young vivacity? It was clear to him that that fellow was entangling her in some monstrous way—part and parcel no doubt of this militant propaganda—and calculating on developments. Winnington's blood boiled. But while he stood uncertain, Delia rose, went to the bureau where she had been writing, brought thence a cheque, and mutely offered it.
"What is this?" he asked.