CHAPTER XII
But although what one may call the natural freemasonry of the children of light had come in to protect Catharine from any touch of that greedy credulity which had fastened on Barron; though she and Rose and Hugh Flaxman were at one in their contemptuous repudiation of Barron's reading of the story, the story itself, so far as it concerned Alice Puttenham and Hester, found in all their minds but little resistance.
"It may—it may be true," said Catharine gently. "If so—what she has gone through! Poor, poor thing!"
And as she spoke—her thin fingers clasped on her black dress, the nun-like veil falling about her shoulders, her aspect had the frank simplicity of those who for their Lord's sake have faced the ugly things of life.
"What a shame—what an outrage—that any of us here should know a word about it!" cried Rose, her small foot beating on the floor, the hot colour in her cheek. "How shall we ever be able to face her to-night?"
Flaxman started.
"Miss Puttenham is coming to-night?"
"Certainly. She comes with Mary—who was to pick her up—after dinner."
Flaxman patrolled the room a little, in meditation. Finally he stopped before his wife.
"You must realize, darling, that we may be all walking on the edge of a volcano to-night."