"I really believe we can pull it off, if we look at it coolly," he said at last, pausing in front of her. "I am no bigot on the Suffrage question—frankly I have not yet made up my mind upon it. All that I am clear about—as your father was clear—is that outrage and violence are wrong—in any cause. I cannot believe that we shan't agree there!"
He looked at her keenly. Delia was silent. Her face betrayed nothing, though her eyes met his steadily.
"And in regard to that, there is of course one thing that troubles me"—he resumed—"one thing in which I beg you to take my advice"—
Delia breathed quick.
"Gertrude Marvell?" she said. "Of course I knew that was coming!"
"Yes. That we must settle, I think." He kept his eyes upon her. "You can hardly know that she is mentioned by name in your father's last letter—the letter to me—-as the one person whose companionship he dreaded for you—the one person he hoped you would consent to part from."
Delia had turned white.
"No—I didn't know."
"For that reason, and for others, I do entreat you"—he went on, earnestly—"not to keep her here. Miss Marvell may be all that you believe her. I have nothing to say against her,—except this. I am told by those who know that she is already quite notorious in the militant movement. She has been in prison, and she has made extremely violent speeches, advocating what Miss Marvell calls war, and what plain people call—crime. That she should live with you here would not only prejudice your future, and divide you from people who should be your natural friends; it would be an open disrespect to your father's memory."
There was silence. Then Delia said, evidently mastering her excitement with difficulty.