'You mean, you can't trust me?' he said, flushing deeper.
'No, Willy—no!' Hester's earnest, perplexed look appeased his rising anger. 'But it's a very difficult position, you must see for yourself. Ever since George Sarratt disappeared, you've been—what shall I say?—the poor child's earthly Providence. Her illness—her convalescence—you've done everything—you've provided everything—'
'With her sister's consent, remember!—and I promised Sarratt to look after them!'
Farrell's blue eyes were now bright and stubborn. Hester realised him as ready for an argument which both he and she had long foreseen. She and Farrell had always been rather intimate friends, and he had come to her for advice in some very critical moments of his life.
'Her sister!' repeated Hester, contemptuously. 'Yes, indeed, Bridget Cookson—in my opinion—is a great deal too ready to accept everything you do! But Nelly has fought it again and again. Only, in her weakness, with you on one side—and Bridget on the other—what could she do?'
She had taken the plunge now. Her own colour had risen—her hand shook a little on her needles. And she had clearly roused some strong emotion in Farrell. After a few moments' silence, he fell upon her, speaking rather huskily.
'You mean I have taken advantage of her?'
'I don't mean anything of the kind!' Hester's tone shewed her distress. 'I know that all you have done has been out of pure friendship and goodness—
He stopped her.
'Don't go on!' he said roughly. 'Whatever I am, I'm not a hypocrite. I worship the ground she treads on!'