“Don’t you see, you stupid woman, that it’ll settle your hash?” Helen broke in; “the boy’ll find out somehow that you’re in it--”
“I shall tell him,” Edith interposed quietly.
“Oh, my Aunt Maria!” groaned Helen of Troy, “my sainted Aunt Maria! You’ll tell him? And what good do you suppose that’ll do?”
“I’m not responsible for results,” said Edith. “But I’ve got to tell him.”
“I’m glad I know nothing of the obligations of virtue,” said Helen. “I understand paying for my fun, but I don’t see why you should pay for other people’s.”
“I couldn’t deceive Horace or the boy,” said Edith, “to save myself. I don’t mind deceiving people at all for any other reason. Half of life is mutually tolerated deceit, but not for purposes of self-protection; that I don’t like, nor, my dear Helen, do you!”
Helen did not reply to this; she merely nibbled her pen, which she had taken up from an inlaid desk beside her.
“I suppose you are going to bully me into this thing?” she observed after a pause.
“Dear me, yes,” said Edith, “that’s what I’m here for!”
Helen laughed.